


A New Threat

by KaiserKittenWalzer



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-29
Updated: 2016-02-24
Packaged: 2018-02-19 05:08:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 123,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2375792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaiserKittenWalzer/pseuds/KaiserKittenWalzer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The whole Beacon Hills gang faces a new threat after mysterious black cars begin appearing around town.  After going underground, the group is forced to flee the state, pursued by a private company which has been operating up and down the West coast, plaguing packs and making their members disappear.  The group meets up in Arizona at an isolated ranch, safe for the time being, to figure out what to do next.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What Are You Afraid Of?

Stiles opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling as the blare of the alarm clock reverberated in his ears. It was 6:00 AM, and he'd actually managed to sleep enough during the night that he felt somewhat refreshed; it was a new sensation for him as of late. He didn't even need to look over as he slapped his hand down on the alarm clock in a quick, automatic fashion, knowing exactly where the source of that tormenting klaxon resided next to his bed.

He had plenty of time to get up and give himself a leisurely start to the day. With his insomnia, he couldn't often afford the pleasure. He usually needed every precious minute of sleep he could get until “go-time,” the bare minimum number of minutes to get himself ready, scrambling and panicked, before, traffic willing, sliding into his homeroom seat just before the sound of the morning bell.

Beacon Hills, for Stiles, had been quiet recently, but not the kind of quiet that was reassuring. About a month prior, black SUVs started to appear around town. Sometimes they were outside the school. Once and a while they were parked across the street from his or Scott's house, or occasionally they popped up, lurking a few cars back in the rear-view mirror of his Jeep.

Stiles, who had a knack for noticing patterns, had caught onto this strange occurrence, and he certainly wasn't the only one. He'd told Derek about it when he'd realized something wasn't quite right, and Derek seemed to be unsurprised by the information. 

“I know what you're talking about, and it's not good,” Derek had told Stiles, without bothering to fill him in any further. 

Stiles was disturbed by the fact that his boyfriend of only a couple months seemed to already be keeping secrets from him. But what Stiles didn't realize was that Derek hadn't elaborated because he didn't know much more than what Stiles had told him. If there was one thing Derek hated, it was admitting he didn't know something. He was supposed to be in control.

Something certainly was up though, because anyone Stiles knew with a hint of the supernatural, had gone underground, quite literally, into a network of caves that lay beneath the woods outside of town. Derek had suggested it, knowing that although he wasn't sure of what danger they'd face next, it was fast approaching, and it was serious. The others eventually agreed, one by one, at first skeptical about such a hasty retreat into hiding, but gradually spooked by the black cars and the men wearing suits and earpieces who suddenly seemed to pop up in the oddest of places.

Stiles had been the only one who stayed where he was. In fact, he'd insisted on it, though he'd have preferred to be wherever Derek and Scott were. Choosing to stay behind was good for his friends though, as he made the routine trip out to the entrance of the caves to deliver news and update his companions about the goings-on around town. On his most recent trip, he'd been happy to tell them that it seemed like the strange cars and suited men had finally gone away. The coast seemed to be clear, he'd explained, and Derek agreed that after a few more days, if nothing else suspicious occurred, they'd come out of hiding. Stiles was relieved that whatever all the strange business was, it seemed to be over, and they could all soon get back to leading their lives.

Stiles showered and got dressed. He put his homework in his backpack, and headed downstairs to an empty kitchen. His father was already at work. Being Sheriff meant long hours, and Stiles was used to making his own breakfast, on the rare occasion he had time. He downed a plate of toast and a bowl of cereal and headed out the door, grabbing his keys from the key rack. He stepped outside to a bright, cloudless sky. The air was cool and was bellowed by a soft breeze, and Stiles breathed it in, content in knowing by tomorrow, his friends would be getting back to normal life. Stiles headed towards the Jeep parked in the driveway. He went around to the driver's side, and opened the door, but as he did so he remembered, suddenly feeling quite foolish, that he'd forgotten not only his lunch, but also to even lock the front door behind him. Had he taken his Adderal this morning? Stiles shook his head, reproaching himself silently for being so uncareful, and he tossed his bag onto the seat and turned to head back into the house.

He took a few steps back towards the front door, when _BOOM!_ The interior of the Jeep exploded, sending a fireball hurtling through the glass windows and shooting the roof off the vehicle in a volcanic eruption of heat and light. Stiles was knocked to the ground by the force of the blast, and his vision went dark.

A few minutes later... honestly who could say how long? Stiles opened his eyes, to the street, looking at it sideways from the pavement, as his ears rang in an impossibly high pitch. Suddenly a black Camaro flew down the street and came to an abrupt halt in front of the house, its brakes screeching, though Stiles couldn't hear them through the ringing that inundated his head. 

Derek jumped out of the car and ran to where Stiles lay. He knelt down and picked him up in his arms. “Are you okay?” Derek asked, his face lined with concern. Not only could Stiles not hear what his boyfriend was asking, he was so confused by the explosion that he couldn't even lip read the words correctly. It was as if everything were happening in slow motion but nothing made sense. Stiles wasn't panicked, just overwhelmed and delirious, but Derek's sudden appearance made him feel safe. Stiles smiled, cradled in Derek's arms. “Curly fries, I want the curly fries” He said lazily, in a half-wit tone. Derek frowned, “Well, I guess that answers that,” He said, scooping Stiles up in his arms and carrying him to the Camaro.

The Camaro peeled out, and Derek noticed that through the smoke made by the sports car's tires he was now being followed by a black Yukon. “Shit,” he whispered to himself, as he made a hard right at the next stop, accelerating effortlessly and making use of every horsepower. He screeched to a halt, turned left, turned right, blazed down side streets, and finally lost the SUV, just in time to pull the car into an underground parking garage, making sure with a quick glance right and left, that his tail was nowhere to be seen.

The Camaro glided through the parking facility and Derek's racing thoughts from the chase were interrupted by the sound of Stiles who suddenly started upright. “Where are we?” he asked.

“We're changing cars and we're heading out,” Replied Derek tersely. “Don't worry, everything is going to be okay,” he said, as he tried to reassure Stiles, who leaned back into the seat, closing his eyes. "Mhmmm..." He said, softly, nodding his head in oblivious agreement. The metal door of the garage entry finally slid down behind them, offering a brief hope of protection from the dangers that lurked outside, and Derek allowed himself to sigh quietly in relief, just for a moment.

Derek pulled the Camaro into a parking space next to an old 1980s Ford F150. He parked and turned off the engine, getting out of the car quickly. He pulled a key out of his pocket and opened the old truck, reaching behind the driver's seat to pull out a small duffel bag from which he took out some clothes. Stiles opened his eyes and looked out the passenger side window to see his boyfriend strip down to his black boxer briefs only to quickly redress himself in a pair of jeans, a plaid shirt, and a pair of boots. Stiles smiled sleepily as if it were a nice dream and he once again closed his eyes.

Derek opened Stiles' door and scooped the boy up, carrying him to the other side of the truck. Stiles sighed, eyes closed, as Derek placed him on the bench seat inside the cab. Derek closed the door and headed around to the driver's side, clicking the lock button on his Camaro's key fob as he got in the cab. He turned the key, and the truck's engine roared to life. He began to back the truck out, looking longingly at his car as he turned the wheel to leave. He fully expected never to see it again, and it pained him to think so, but despite what might come, it was definitely time to go.

The old F150 drove out of town inconspicuously. Derek made sure not to go too slow or too fast. His attention was mostly focused on his mirrors, making sure at all times that he was not being followed. His mind was on high alert, fraught with paranoia, and in this case, as the saying goes, just because he was paranoid, didn't mean they weren't really after him. Any time he suspected a tail, no matter what type of car, he'd make four right turns at the nearest exit, and did so calmly, so as not to attract attention to them.

Halfway to Reno, Stiles started to wake up and regain consciousness. He looked out the window, confused as to what was going on. He turned to Derek, the sight of whom calmed him considerably. No matter where he was, Stiles felt safe if Derek was there. 

“What happened?” Stiles asked. 

“They blew up your car,” replied Derek, in his typically taciturn manner.

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Who is _they?_ ” he insisted.

“I'm not quite sure, but I have an idea,” said Derek, eyes fixed coldly ahead on the highway.

“Where are we going?” Stiles asked.

“East. If everything goes according to plan, we'll be meeting up with everyone else,” Said Derek with just a hint of uncertainty in his voice.

“Ummm,” Stiles began, “Do I need to point out that living in California, if I ask where we're going and you say, 'East,' that leaves the possibilities pretty wide open? Like... a whole continent wide open?”

Derek smirked. Even after all that had happened, Stiles still had the moxie to be a smartass. He took his right hand off the steering wheel and took hold of Stiles, pulling him in so that he slid across the bench right next to him.

Stiles smiled a little, warmed by the attention and the feeling of Derek's body, which felt sure and safe. But Stiles was nevertheless still perturbed by his boyfriend's lack of an answer as to their destination.

“So where are we going?” he insisted again.  
“Arizona,” relented Derek, eyes still straight on the road ahead.  
“Ummmm... the signs say we're heading toward Nevada,” Stiles said, incredulously.  
“No shit?” were the two words Derek's tense mouth was able to produce.

Stiles let his head drop softly onto Derek's shoulder. “Alright,” he sighed in resignation. He was too tired to put up much of a fight this go-round, and he let himself trust that Derek knew what he was doing, as the two drove on with miles and miles before them. Derek prayed the others would all make it to their rendez-vous, pack and non-pack alike. They were going to need all the help they could get.


	2. Reno isn't so Far

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for any hiccups in the writing. I wanted to get out a new chapter as soon as possible. Un-beta'd and definitely needs some revision, but here you go! Hope you enjoy.

The old Ford truck rolled in past the edge of town. Derek kept an eye out for a place to stop over, some place with a little privacy where they could figure out their next move and maybe even get some rest.

After not too long, he spotted a motel off the highway. It was nothing fancy, and good for that. What he wanted was something inconspicuous. Satisfied at the grim look of the place, he turned the truck into the lodging, whose paint-thin, weathered sign unconvincingly described it to everyone else as the “Paradise Palms.” 

It was a gray, cinder block construction of a lodging, with a long row of rooms set back and stacked in two stories, parallel to the highway, a wing on each side, reaching out towards the road as if the motel beckoned with two arms to the cars passing by. In the middle of the motel's embrace, was a pool, fenced-in and abutting the sidewalk in an awkwardly exhibitionist way. Derek was not surprised to see just a couple of cars in the parking lot.

Derek parked the truck in front of the motel office. He got out of the cab and walked into the dismal reception area in which sat a toad of a woman plopped behind a computer. Derek noted that she seemed like one of those people who were all but taken by life's miseries and ready to evangelize it to absolutely everyone who didn't care. Derek knew people made fun of him for being so curt in his interactions, but she was one of his reasons.

The corpulent, pale woman looked up from her magazine just long enough to mutter a, “What?” in a deep gravelly voice. Her eyes, that had briefly looked up at the new customer, descended immediately past the top of her reader's glasses, back to her magazine and the latest gossip about her stories.

Derek was unfazed.  
“I want a room ,” he said simply.

“Fifty bucks a night. $250.00 deposit,” the woman replied, in the most disinterested voice, not even bothering to look up this time.

Derek slapped three, one hundred dollar bills onto the counter. The woman looked up slowly, first at the cash, then at Derek, who obliged her attention with a steeled glare.

“If you ain't gotta card for the deposit, the deposit's Five hun....”

_Thud._ The woman jolted just a bit as Derek slapped down two more hundreds before she could finish her sentence. The woman regained her composure in quick order, trying to play down her shock. She was out of her league if she wanted to play the ice-cold bitch game.

“She leaned forward into a cubby underneath the counter, grunting a little with all the exertion, and righting herself, muttered, “Check out is at noon,” before slamming down the key card on the counter, quickly gathering the cash, and returning her attention to her magazine.

Derek grabbed the key and without a word turned and walked out of the office, unlocking the truck and orienting himself as to where their room would be. It was in the wing of the motel that was farthest from the reception. He backed the truck out, idling it down the parking lot, turning right and parking in a spot that faced towards the highway, but which was mostly concealed behind the pool and its fence.

Derek got out of the truck and went around to the other side. He was about to open the door to scoop up Stiles when the door popped open on its own. He paused for a brief second in surprise, as Stiles pushed the door carefully open. Derek realized he'd not even bothered to check on his boyfriend during the short fifty foot commute between the office and the pool-side parking. He'd just assumed he was still asleep. Stiles had been awake though; he'd just been quiet, absorbing everything that had happened.

“I'm, um... I'm sorry,” started Derek, averting his eyes in embarrassment.  
“It's okay,” Stiles reassured him. “Let's get up to the room.”

The two made their way up the stairs to the second story, and Derek unlocked the scratched door and opened it. He flipped the light switch which revealed a room slathered in a 70s color palette, with tan walls, a green comforter canvassing the bed, and dull, orange shag carpeting. _What was the deposit for, exactly?_ Derek asked himself as he reluctantly stepped into the room. _At least it's one bed_ , Derek sighed internally, as he tossed his jacket at the foot of the Queen sized pea-colored monstrosity. 

Stiles meanwhile, seemed too distracted by his thoughts to pay much attention to the finer details of the room. He was focused on trying to put the pieces together of everything that had happened. He was especially worried about his dad, who by now had surely been alerted to the fact that his son's car had blown up in their driveway, and said son was nowhere to be found.

“Are you really going to sleep at a time like this?” Stiles asked Derek.  
“Even when things get dicey, you need to keep your strength, separate the anxiety from what you control,” sighed the weary-sounding werewolf, his attention fixed on turning down the comforter and removing his clothes.  
Stiles stared at Derek for a minute, then glanced desperately left, and right, before suddenly realizing the miscommunication, “No I meant a time like this, as in, it's like, 11:30 in the morning.”

Derek smirked, “When you're tired, you're tired. Just because you've gotten lots of sleep doesn't mean I have.”

Stiles wasn't sure if he should be offended by the off-hand comment. Though, his instinct told him that Derek was acting like kind of a dick. The nascent indignation gave him some encouragement to ask what he'd been wondering.

“What have you all been up to since you went underground?” queried Stiles, suspecting that just because he'd been visiting his friends in hiding didn't necessarily mean they were doing nothing between his trips to see them. He'd never really second-guessed the mundane explanations about their activities his companions gave him on his occasional foray into the woods to check up on them. Now he wondered if he'd been lied to, or maybe worse, left out of things. The idea hurt him a little and his eyes were downcast while he waited for an explanation.

“Let's talk about it later,” Derek grunted as he slid under the covers, ignorant of all the unsaid thoughts weaving together in Stile's mind like tendrils towards dark conclusions.

Stiles still had his gaze fixed on the horrendous carpeting. He might have made a sarcastic remark about it had he been in another mood, or not preoccupied with why he knew almost nothing about what had led to his car exploding and his unexpected vacation to a ratty motel in Reno. Instead, he went around to the other side of the bed and climbed in. He placed his hands with their fingers interwoven behind his head as he laid back and sighed in resignation.  


Stiles wanted nothing to do with the feelings marinating in his head. They revolted him. He loved Derek too much to confront him now. He didn't want to create a scene over something that probably wasn't even scene-worthy, just a misinterpretation of his mind filling in gaps too large to be filled with stray thoughts and insecurities. Still, he realized he was not at all sleepy, and it made little sense to lie there awake, as Derek drifted off to sleep.

“Derek?” Stiles asked, half whispering,  
“Hmm?” Derek grunted.  
“I want to try to get some work done while you nap. Is there a computer in this, let's call it an... inn? Somewhere I can go to get some work done?”  
“Keys to the truck are on the table. Under the passenger seat is a nylon bag with a laptop and a 4G USB modem,” replied Derek, before turning into his pillow a little more, ready to get some sleep.  
“Perfect,” murmured Stiles to himself.

Stiles went downstairs and retrieved the bag, just where Derek had said it would be. He brought it up to the room, taking care not to make too much noise, as he plugged in the computer and booted it, ready to get to work. His first thought was to send an email to his dad, letting him know he was okay.

 _Wait a minute, I could just call him! Well, If I still have my cellphone,_ Stiles thought. He checked his right front pocket, and to his surprise felt his cell phone. Not only had it not been lost after his driveway-dive, it actually appeared in good shape. 

Stiles smiled and unlocked his phone. He opened up his contact list, but as he did, he paused. Things weren't going well. They were being chased. He'd almost been blown up. And who was there to rescue him just at the right moment? Derek. If Derek was there so fast, he'd known something was wrong, even though all signs, at least to Stiles, had pointed to it all getting better. _Maybe_ , thought Stiles, _I should wait off until Derek's awake._ He looked over as the big wolf suddenly snorted, as if to agree.

Several hours later, Stiles was beginning to get some small insight into things. It would have been helpful if Derek had told him at least the little that he knew, and Stiles mentally chastised himself for not having pressed him for more information sooner. He didn't have much to go off of, but he started with the little that he knew: Beacon Hills. Nothing from his search of the newspapers seemed to indicate anything. All the bizarre activity he and his friends had witnessed seemed unreported.

Stiles expanded his search, looking at publications in a larger area for news stories from the last couple of months. He began to see something unusual in a town's newspaper not far north of Beacon Hills. There were at least a couple of people who'd disappeared with no explanation. It was a coincidence that seemed really strange for such a small town. Moreover, they'd disappeared, according to the authorities, not from their homes, or their work, but by any evidence available, from the woods.

Spurred on by curiosity, Stiles did a search of multiple Northern California newspapers using boolean methods, and he began noticing that in the search area there seemed to be a continuous pattern of unexplained disappearances.

_This is good,_ thought Stiles,before pausing, _well not good, but good progress,_ he corrected himself. _Well, good progress towards finding something, not like good progress towards kidnapping people, like bravo,_ he clarified once more. Stiles nodded his head in agreement with himself, still lost in thought. 

He could work with this. Stiles was beginning to feel the fog of uncertainty lifting just a little, and he suddenly had a craving for some Mountain Dew, or even better, a Sun Drop, one of those sodas that he'd slurp down to fuel his late-night frantic obsessions, like his paper on the history of the male circumcision, which had also doubled as his Economics midterm.

Stiles grabbed the key card and headed towards the door, patting his back pocket to make sure he had his wallet, and taking care that he quietly open and shut the door to keep Derek from waking. As he closed the door slowly, creating as quiet a click from the lock as possible, he turned around to see if there were any vending machine close by. He saw one, down on the first floor, all the way on the other side of the motel. He headed down the stairs at a hyperactive pace that vented the frustration of trying to contain his excitement so as not to wake Derek.

Stiles reached the bottom of the stairs, and as he turned to head in the direction of the vending machine across the way, he noticed that directly ahead of him was an open-air hallway which ran straight through the main building and connected the front parking lot to the one behind. Off to the right of the hallway, he saw as he walked a little closer, an alcove, from which a dull light illuminated. Stiles wondered if it was maybe an ice dispenser, or maybe, with some luck, another vending machine not so far away as the other one.

Stiles walked towards it. _Score! Soda Machine!_ Stiles thrust his hands down into his pockets to look for some change. He found a few quarters in his right pocket, desperately searched, and then felt a fourth and a fifth quarter in his left. His bottle of Mountain Dew awaited.

Stiles began inserting the coins, his thoughts elsewhere as he considered what a few more hours on the internet might lead him to find, especially if he could use that information to get his dad and the Sheriff's office involved. Stiles thought that out of the corner of his eye he saw a shadow disrupt the light from the hallway entrance, but he didn't pay any attention to it. It was probably just someone passing by. It was a motel after all. There were people here.

That mental dismissal meant Stiles didn't notice the man with the truncheon walking briskly but quietly towards his target, a target which he must have thought would be an easy hit. His eyes were fixed on the boy, who from a brief pause indicated to the man he'd probably seen him, but was too scared to do anything but pretend not to notice.

In reality, Stiles was just oblivious. Just as his assailant had lifted the truncheon up to bring it down on Stiles' head, the awkward teen was fumbling to get out his last quarter, which he dropped on the ground. The timing was so perfect that as Stiles leaned down to pick it up, the truncheon which should have hit his head and knocked him out, or worse, hit him squarely in the upper back.

“Ow! Hey! What the fuck, man?” Stiles yelled, still kneeling on his haunches, bracing himself against the vending machine, his head turning to look up at the young, bald thug who loomed a few feet away, having taken a step back and who seemed surprised at the suddenly unexpected turn in his plan. He didn't reply, and seemed to pause for a brief second, glancing left and right as if he weren't sure what to do.

It seemed he'd made up his fight-or-flight decision, because Stiles saw him reach into his pocket and pull out a switchblade. He grasped it in his right hand, low near his side. The tip of the blade pointed towards Stiles and the flash of light off the cold steel drew Stiles' attention away from his distracted focus on the tattoos covering both his arms. Stiles eyes grew wide with fear, as the man lunged towards him. In a split second, Stiles' mind reacted and he dodged, with arms flailing, out of the way. His hands pushed him off from the vending machine, as he ran to the right of the assailant, so that it was almost as if they had switched positions.

The two looked at each other for a minute. Despite the mortal danger he currently faced, Stiles couldn't help but hear the voice of Comic Book Man from _The Simpsons_ saying in his head, “Worst.stabbing.ever.” The man snickered, as if he'd heard what Stiles was thinking, but in reality it was because of how pathetic the kid seemed, how easy it was going to be to take him out. He wouldn't even put up a fight.

Stiles' attacker seemed as if he were about to come at him again, and this time, Stiles looked back at the end of the hallway he'd come from, and he decided if he were getting out of this, he'd have to book it. He ran, break-neck speed towards the entrance, hoping to God he could make it up the stairs to the room with enough space between him and the goon to get inside before getting shanked.

Stiles was almost to the parking lot and was tempted to look behind him to see how much space he'd put between him and Mr. McStabbersons. As much as he desperately wanted to, he remembered the mantra from his cross-country coach in middle school: don't look back, don't look back, don't look back. All it was going to do was slow him down, and all he could do was go as fast as he could.

He reached the end of the hall, bursting out into the sunlight, pulsing with anxiety and adrenaline. He barely noticed the figure that sped from his left into the entrance to meet his pursuer. 

Derek stopped just at the edge of the hall, about eight feet from the thug who'd been chasing his boyfriend. That attacker stopped dead in his tracks as he stared into the glowing eyes of one pissed-off werewolf. He dropped his knife, eyes still transfixed, and he began to take one, then two, hesitant, jilted steps backwards.

He wasn't getting out. Derek lunged at him with a speed impossible for a human to match, and he knocked the man into the wall, causing his head to smack against the cinder blocks. The man slumped to the floor, unconscious. Derek growled, preparing to finish the thug off, when he was pulled back by Stiles' voice.

“Derek, stop. He's down,” Stiles said, through heavy panting as he tried to recover from his sprint from death.

Derek paused, and seemed reluctant but he de-wolfed, all the while with his pitiless gaze on the man crumpled a few feet away.

“We've got to go,” Derek said, icily.  
“Okay, then we'll go,” replied Stiles, trying to sound as calm as possible.  
“We're taking him with us,” Derek said.

Stiles was taken aback for a moment, “Wait, what? Why?” he asked, completely perplexed.

“We can't leave him here,” Derek replied. Stiles had no idea what he meant by that, why couldn't they? But he nodded his head in agreement, muttering, “okay.”

“Get everything out of the room, and meet me at the other end of the hallway. I'm going to drive the truck around to the back and we'll load up the gear and this piece of shit,” Derek said. Stiles nodded and he headed off quickly to grab everything out of the room.

Stiles got to the bottom of the stairs, huffing, as he carried their things. When he got to the hallway, he could see Derek at the other end, dragging the man by the wrist, the thug's limp body sliding along the concrete floor like a rag doll. Stiles got to the truck just as Derek had finished putting the man in the middle of the truck's bench seat. Derek leaned over and took a pair of handcuffs out of the glove compartment, and slapped them on the man's wrists. Stiles stood there speechless, and watched the werewolf pat down the man's pockets and remove a cell phone and a wallet.

“Here,” Derek said, handing them to Stiles, “See what useful information you can find with these.” He got in the driver's seat and Stiles supposed that was the cue they were leaving, so he went around to the other side of the truck, tossed the computer bag and a couple other items hastily removed from the room into the back of the cab, before climbing in. "And, we're out," Derek sighed wearily, before he began driving, "That was a good nap too."

“Where are we going?” asked Stiles, after about twenty minutes.  
“Back to California,” replied Derek.  
“What? I thought...”  
“Shut up Stiles,” Derek said, cutting him off.

The man sitting awkwardly between them gave a moan, and began to raise his head. He looked disoriented and confused, unsure of where he was or how he got there. “What's going...” Derek, without even looking over, reached his right arm behind the man's head, then slammed it violently into the dash, rendering him unconscious once more.

“Jesus!” yelled Stiles.

Derek said nothing. His face showed nothing to acknowledge Stiles. His eyes remained fixed ahead.

About twenty minutes later and they'd turned off the highway onto a road that lead to Frenchman's Lake. Five minutes into the woods, Derek turned left onto a Forest Service Road, following it for a couple more minutes before turning off the dirt path and parking the truck.

“Wait,” said Stiles confused, “This is where we were going?”  
“No,” Derek replied, “I thought we'd stop and have a picnic.”

Stiles rolled his eyes, as they both got out of the truck.

Derek pulled the still-unconscious man out of the cab, and then turned him around, slumping his torso over the side of the bench seat, face down. Derek pulled a key out of his pocket and reached around to unlock one of the cuffs. He swiftly pulled the man's arms behind his back and secured them again. He stepped away with a blase' look, fully realizing that the force of his body no longer pressing against the man would cause him to slip off the seat and fall in a heap on the forest ground. Derek couldn't be bothered to care.

Derek grabbed picked the man up by the waist of his jeans and began to walk off, the exertion seeming almost effortless. Stiles looked on, mouth agape, before deciding he'd better follow. Fifty feet later and Derek dropped the man on the ground once again. The man coughed and wheezed a little from the impact, though he was still unconscious. Derek leaned down and ripped the man's shirt open, exposing his pale, white torso. He tore off the man's shoes and socks too, tossing them aside like unwanted trash. 

Derek headed back to the truck and returned a moment later with a machete. _Who keeps a machete in their car?_ Stiles thought. His eyes bulged as Derek slapped the humongous knife forcefully into a tree stump only a few feet from where the captive man lay.

“What are you going to do?” asked a feeble-voiced Stiles, now dreading what the answer might be.

Derek sauntered over to the boy, who at this point was petrified. Derek smirked. His eyes gazed off into the distance and his voice made him seem like he was elsewhere. He put his arm around Stiles, and they both stood there with the unconscious attacker bound on the forest floor, helpess before them.

“We're going to make him talk.”


	3. A Brief Romp in the Woods

Stiles sat on the ground, his legs crossed. He was hunched over and examining the finer details of a dried leaf which he held between two of his pale, delicate fingers. He tried to take in everything about it: its feel, its color, the minuscule veins that canaled up its center and which flowed to the right and left. Stiles wasn't particularly interested in leaves, or trees, or sitting on the ground cross-legged, for that matter. He just needed something to focus on to keep him distracted from his still-unconscious assailant who lay there on the forest floor, orbited by a werewolf who was deep in his own, probably homicidal thoughts, about which Stiles had no desire to know.

 

Indeed, Derek, had set about coming up with a strategy for what they would do between now and reaching their destination in Arizona. But first he had to take care of this problem, and it was definitely a problem. He would have sooner just killed the man outright back at the motel. Would it have attracted attention? Yes. But the police were never going to believe a human had mauled the guy and ripped out his throat like some kind of rabid dog. Stiles had brought him back from the edge of doing just that.

 

Derek wished he hadn't let Stiles sway him, because all this: all the new plans, all the uncertainty, all the where-do-we-go-from-here questions, would be just a little less complicated. If Derek could think of any redeeming reason for letting this thug live a little while longer, it was that he might give up some information that could be valuable. But even that Derek doubted, as he glanced at the man who was tattooed everywhere, dressed like some _cholo_ -wannabe. He didn't expect for a single minute that this guy was high enough up in whatever he was involved to know anything.

 

The man stirred just slightly. Derek ignored him as he continued pacing in a circle, knowing it would take him a few minutes to come to. Stiles looked up from his little leaf at the sound of the brush moving beneath the man's body. He couldn't help but notice how helpless he looked there, face up to the sky, in the middle of the forest, hands cuffed behind his back with a menacing-looking man walking circles around him.

 

Stiles returned his gaze to the leaf he held and maybe it seemed as if he were pretending he weren't paying attention, but in reality his concentration was now completely devoted to detecting the slightest sound of a voice, a stir, or a violent movement, a deep, diesel growl, a startled shout, anything.

 

-In fact, it was a startled shout that Stiles heard. He lifted his head suddenly to look at the man whose body had violently jolted to life, gasping in the air of a disorienting world very different from the one he'd left not hours ago.

 

For the man, it was as if he'd been high-up in a dream and tumbled over a cliff, and it was as if the sensation of the fall's impending end had roused him, like ice-water dumped on an unsuspecting victim. His back arched from the ground before collapsing to the earth beneath him. He looked around, completely lost, panicked, and confused.

 

He could see he was in the woods, and that there was a frail looking kid sitting off a ways. He looked over, though, and saw a huge machete sticking out of a tree stump, and, _oh God_ , he thought, as he saw a brooding figure passing behind the gigantic knife. Derek's eyes were fixed on him. They never broke their focus for a moment, even as his face became obscured when he walked briefly behind the knife.

 

“Good afternoon,” he heard Derek say casually, as he continued to stroll in a circle around him. He was panicked, glancing around to see if he could maybe orient himself, while trying to also keep track of the man circling him, boring through him with his ice-like eyes.

 

“Who are you?” he asked helplessly, trying to keep himself propped up a little bit on the elbows of his arms still cuffed behind his back.

 

“Who am I?” Derek smirked. He let his eyes wander off, pretending to seriously contemplate the question.

 

“I'm that guy's boyfriend,” he said, pointing over at Stiles, who still sat on the ground, holding his leaf, looking on at the scene now and wishing he weren't part of it.

 

“So the question is,” Derek said, as he continued his circular pace around the man,

“Who _the fuck_ are you?”

 

“I'm....” started the man, hesitating.

 

Derek was running out of patience. After a couple of seconds with no response from the man, he wolfed, enraged, and leaped forward with an amazing swiftness that shocked both Stiles and certainly the man lying on the ground who suddenly found himself inches away from a werewolf roaring violently, directly into his face, with his claws wrapped around his neck.

 

“Jeffrey,” Derek heard. But the answer came from behind him, from Stiles. Derek looked over his shoulder, as Stiles began to get up from the ground. “Jeffrey Winters,” Stiles said, as he walked towards the two and casually tossed the man's wallet on the ground a few feet from Derek.

 

“He's 5 feet 11 inches, 170 pounds, twenty-nine years old, and his birthday is St. Patrick's day, which...” Stiles paused, looking down sympathetically, “which really sucks. I'm sorry.” Derek's eyes were locked on Stiles. “Oh, and I forgot,” Stiles continued, “From the looks of the pictures in there, Jeffery's married, and has two little girls.

 

Derek gave low, resigned growl, and he de-wolfed, releasing the man's throat and dropping him back to the ground. “I need to talk to you,” Derek said to Stiles in a low, serious voice.

“Okay,” Stiles, said. “What do you want to talk about?”

“Alone,” Derek responded abruptly.

Stiles made a sweeping gesture with his arm to point to some random part of the woods. “Step into my office,” he said in a mock grandiose voice. The two walked a ways farther into the woods.

 

When Derek was satisfied they wouldn't be overheard he stopped walking, and Stiles who was a few feet ahead of Derek, stopped abruptly as he heard his name.

 

“Stiles,” Derek started, “you know we have to kill him, don't you?”

 

“No Derek, no I don't know that,” replied Stiles. His voice had a slightly confrontational edge that suggested he was willing to put up a fight on this one.

 

Derek breathed a deep sigh, trying to keep himself calm and muster some patience to make his naïve boyfriend understand why this was really something very simple. He began to speak with a slow cadence, over-enunciating his words, as if he were trying to explain something to a child who just wasn't quite “getting it.”

 

“Look,” Derek said, “This guy knows what we look like. He knows where we've been. Since he's been following us, then he knows what we're driving. Who knows what else he knows about us?” Derek paused for a moment, to see if Stiles was starting to catch-on, but Stiles seemed unimpressed. “What I'm trying to say is he's a huge liability. If he goes back to whoever he works for, we don't know what information he could provide. It could put everything in jeopardy. It's not a moral dilemma Stiles. It's one man dying so that a bunch of others won't have to, because he won't be able to help them find us.

 

Stiles was looking at the ground, listening contently to what Derek had to say. When Derek had finished, Stiles shrugged his shoulders, shirking off the arguments. “Okay, yes, he knows some things about us. He knows what we look like, true. But wouldn't it be safe to say that his employers already know that too, that whoever sent him after us could very plausibly have been the one to provide him with our descriptions, or maybe our pictures?”

 

Derek nodded his head as he glanced skywards, annoyed, but conceding the possibility. But Stiles wasn't done.

 

“In fact, if you recall that black SUVs have routinely showed up outside my house, Scott's house, school, the clinic, it might be safe to say they know a lot more about us than what we look like.”

 

“Probably true,” Derek said hesitantly.

 

“And, if you think about it,” continued Stiles, “He followed us to Reno... not to where we're actually going, which means the only useful information he can provide anyone is where _we were_ , not where _we'll be._ ”

 

Derek jumped in before this logic train got away from him. “What about the truck? He knows what we're driving.”

 

“True...” admitted Stiles.

“See,” Derek continued, “It's simple. We have to kill him. Nothing we can do,” he said shaking his head, mocking a sad resignation to having to resort to such measures.

 

“Well, no....” Stiles started before trailing off while trying to put together a convincing rebuttal. Derek cocked an eyebrow, somewhat smug at his boyfriend's faltering argument.

 

“No,” said Stiles starting up again. “Here's the thing. Say we kill him. Well, say _you_ kill him. Are we going to keep driving the same truck?”

 

“Yes, because he'll be dead and he can't tell them what we're driving,” replied Derek, not sure where Stiles was going with this.

 

“No,” said Stiles, “Because you're assuming he hasn't told them what we're driving already,” Stiles said. Derek paused in thought, as Stiles pulled out the man's cell phone shaking it from side to side in front of Derek. “Do you really think during the few hours he followed us here, he didn't call them to tell them not only where we were heading, but in what?” He asked.

 

“Okay, so we'll kill him and ditch the truck. Get something new,” said Derek.

 

“I already told you why we don't have to kill him!” exclaimed an exacerbated Stiles.

 

“He tried to kill you, Stiles! Why shouldn't he deserve what he's willing to do to you? Why shouldn't we send a message back?” Derek's eyes were different, they held a concern for Stiles' well-being, a desire to protect him from anything.

 

Stiles looked at his boyfriend and knew that, despite the dark path it was taking him down, what he was doing was, in a way, driven by love. “Whoever is coming for us is cruel and ruthless, but that doesn't mean we have to be too,” Stiles said, “We don't have to _become_ them to _fight_ them. I fact, if you look at some of history's conflicts between unequal forces, the underdog wins when he refuses to play by the other side's rules.”

 

Derek nodded his head subtly, as if he'd finally been convinced. As he took his own turn staring at the ground, he heard Stiles voice interrupt his thoughts: “Remember,” Stiles, said, quoting the smartest girl he knew, “Not all monsters do monstrous things.”

 

Stiles started to walk away, and he heard Derek behind him ask plaintively, “So what do I do?”

 

“I don't know. Figure it out,” Stiles said as he continued to walk away from the werewolf, “I'll be in the truck.”

 

Derek remained there, forming a plan. The ball was in his court, and he didn't know exactly what to do. He shook his head in disbelief at how Stiles had convinced him that instead of ending this problem quickly, he was now going to let his would-be killer live.

 

He walked back to the man still lying on the ground. He had a sort of smug look on his face, and seeing the werewolf approaching, the man made a snide comment, “You were gone a while. Trouble with your boyfriend? As long as you two were at it, I could have run clear away from here. Probably could have made it back to Reno by now.”

 

“But you didn't, did you?" replied Derek, leaning down, “Because you knew if you had, I'd catch up with you. Then... well, you probably didn't know this, I would have cut off your feet to teach you a lesson,” Derek replied with a smile cut by his cold gaze. The man's face turned from petulant and amused to ghost-white sober.

 

“My boyfriend,” Derek continued, “has walked away from this situation, because we've decided that while he doesn't want to kill you, if we have to, that's what we'll do. Seeing as how I'll be the one to do it, he's left that decision up to me. He faints at the sight of blood, or at least at the sight of severed limbs.”

 

The man was definitely intimidated. “So, what are you going to do?” he asked softly.

 

“It's really quite simple,” replied Derek, “And it all depends on you. Tell me what you know and I'll let you live, I'll let you walk away from this. Don't tell me what I want to know, and I'll kill you. Slowly. It's a beautiful day outside, and I have all the time in the world.”

 

The man let out a laugh, which took Derek back by surprise. It wasn't the response he was expecting.

 

“You know what I think?” asked the man. “I think you're going to kill me either way. I think that's why your boyfriend isn't here, because no matter how this ends, I'm a dead man.”

 

Derek shrugged his shoulders almost as if he were mimicking Stiles. He leaned over and picked up the man's wallet, opening it and inspecting the contents. “I see you have a driver's license,” sounding like a detective from a cop show.

 

“Yeah....” replied the man sarcastically, drawing out his response

 

“Oh,” sniffed Derek dismissively, “I forgot to explain my train of thought, forgive me. Your license has a home address on it. These other people in this charming family photo wouldn't happen to live at this address, would they?” he asked, holding the photo up. The man cleared his throat nervously, but said nothing. He just looked at Derek with eyes that betrayed his growing panic.

 

“Tell me what you know and I'll let you live. I'll let you go home in peace,” continued Derek.

 

“I don't know very much,” the man started to plead.

 

“That's okay,” replied Derek, kneeling down on his haunches. “Tell me what you know, and answer my questions truthfully. But if you lie, I'll know it, and we'll have to re-visit our arrangement.” He reached out his hand and gently pressed his index finger against the tip of the man's nose. “ _Boop!_ ” he said in a high-pitched voice, trying to lighten the mood. The man just stared at him, not sure exactly what had just happened. Derek hadn't quite figured the whole 'talking to people' thing yet, but he was trying, if only for Stiles.

 

“In my wallet, on the right, there should be a few business cards,” he said, motioning with his head to the leather billfold that lay on the ground. Derek got up and retrieved it, finding the small collection of cards with the names of various businessmen and companies.

 

“There should be one in there from a company called 'PsyNex.'” the man offered.

 

Derek found it easily. It was different from the rest of the business cards which were for the most part traditional looking and printed on card stock. This one was a clear, plastic business card, that looked well designed, minimalist. It had very little information apart from the company's name, which appeared to the right of a set of six orange dots forming a semi-circle, the dots at the top being the smallest, growing larger towards they wrapped downwards and around. There was also a name. “Eric Singleton,” Derek murmured, “R&D Specialist.” Besides those details, there was a phone number, and a business address in San Francisco, nothing more.

 

Derek slipped the card into his pocket, turning his attention back to the man. “What is PsyNex?” he asked, getting straight to the point, as usual.

 

“From what I understand, they do pharmaceuticals. At least, that's how I got involved with them. Long story short, I moved to the bay area about six months back, but the job I moved there for fell through, and just like that, I was out of work. I ended up answering an ad in the paper about a new drug trial that needed volunteers, and it paid great,” the man explained.

 

“What kind of drug?” interrogated Derek.

“It was a drug to improve concentration, almost like Ritalin, but designed for temporary use by people without attention deficit, you know, for people who have projects on a deadline... at least that's what it was supposed to be,” he explained.

 

“What do you mean, _supposed to be_?” queried Derek.

 

“It ended up making us all intensely wired. I didn't sleep for five days. It was awful. But like I said, the pay was fantastic, even if the drug was completely bogus,” Jeffrey offered.

 

Derek pressed him further, “So where does Eric Singleton come into this story?”

 

Jeffrey explained, “After the drug trial, I kept looking for work, thinking that dealing with PsyNex was a one-time thing, but about a month ago I got a call from this Eric Singleton guy saying he worked for the company and that they were interested in hiring me on as a contractor. I thought if it paid as well as the drug trial and didn't involve taking any crazy pharmaceuticals, it was worth a shot talking to him.”

 

He went on, “So, I meet with this Eric guy at a cafe. Sharp suit, nice guy, easy to talk to. There was something that was off though. You know that kind of sleazy salesman vibe from someone who's just a little too slick to be for real? I think it was his hair. It was perfect. There's something about people with perfect hair _all the time_ that makes me distrust them...”

 

Derek made himself snap back from imagining Jackson in that moment. “Okay,” he interrupted, “So what did the sleazy guy with the perfect hair want?”

 

“He said they were really interested in my 'talents,' which seemed a little weird, considering I've mostly worked retail. Anyway, he told me they liked the fact that I'd lived in Beacon Hills, which is where we'd moved from. We'd only lived there a few years, but I really liked it, and Eric asked if I was interested going back to do scouting and reconnaissance work because they were planning on starting a big, new project there.”

 

“Weren't you suspicious that they'd known where you'd lived?” asked Derek.

 

“No, not at all. One of the reasons that drug trial paid so well was we had to pass a really intense background check. We had to fill out a whole history of everywhere we'd lived, people we knew, any criminal past, everything. They insisted on it because it was an experimental drug with lots of money behind it, and they needed to trust the participants wouldn't go blabbing about it. They knew everything about me because I told them.”

 

“So you moved back to Beacon Hills?” Derek asked.

 

“Sort of...” the man explained, “I moved back into a motel. The company paid for it. They paid for my car. They paid for everything. I got to see my kids and wife every few days for a little bit. At first I thought it was weird that they had me drive around town looking for anything 'suspicious' or 'noteworthy.' They said they were competing with big pharma moving into the area, and the money was coming into my bank account, so I didn't bother to ask. Then they started having me keep tabs on people, like high school kids...”

 

“I thought they already had scary men in suits to do that,” Derek replied sarcastically.

 

“And that's exactly what everyone paid attention to, isn't it?” Jeffrey said. “Once you shake the big black Suburban in your rear-view mirror, the coast must be clear, right? That inconspicuous white Impala couldn't possibly be following you, could it? But it could. It could follow you because it wasn't what you were looking out for.”

 

 

“And at what point did they tell you to kill Stiles?” Derek asked coldly.

 

“You mean the motel incident, or the car bomb?” asked the man.

 

“Oh, well nice of you to admit to the car bomb. You really know how to make me like you more,” replied Derek, wanting to finish the low-life off now more than ever.

 

The man realized he was back in dangerous waters, and his tone reverted to something more reserved. “Last night," he said, "I got a call last night. Eric told me what they wanted me to do, and believe me, I told them I wouldn't do it. But they talked me into it. They told me that if I didn't, I'd be out of work again, that they'd make things show up on any background check if I tried to find another job, that my daughters wouldn't ever be able to go to college. They spun it as if I were betraying them if I didn't do it, like they'd invested in me and now I had to pay them back.”

 

Derek was silent for a moment. He tried building a little empathy for the guy, despite what he'd done. It was hard. He could feel his fingernails pressing deep into his balled up palms. If it were up to him, he wouldn't have reached that point where he could just walk away and let him live. But Stiles wanted this and it was just barely enough.

 

“Okay, Jeffrey,” Derek said slowly, avoiding eye contact with the other man, “Here's what's going to happen. You're going to walk away from this one. You're going to go home, but you're never going to work with this PsyNex company or Eric Singleton ever again. If I _ever_...” Derek's eyes met Jeffrey's with an incredible intensity, “find out... if I even suspect, if any of my pack ever suspects, that harm came to us because you helped them after this...”

 

Jeffrey was paralyzed, hanging on the edge of a terrible abyss.

 

 

“I, and whoever else knows your name will not rest until we find you. And believe me, I will make your name known. If you leave us alone from here-on-out, you can sleep easy at night. But if you so much as lift one finger to help Psynex I will kill everyone you hold dear and I will make you watch as I burn their lifeless corpses in the ruin of everything you own."

 

` Derek guffawed for dramatic effect, as if he'd thought of something amusing. “You know how they say 'live and let live?'” he asked rhetorically, “Well in your case it's “'let live and live.'”

 

Jeffrey took in the conditions of the pact that would save his life. The details were terrifying, but he was comforted on some level that they boiled down to 'don't try to kill us, and we'll leave you alone.'

 

Derek interrupted his thoughts, when he realized he'd never asked a question which had been bothering him. “One more thing,” he said, “Why Stiles? Why go after him?”

 

The man was quiet for a couple of seconds, before explaining, “You couldn't be found. None of you could... except Stiles. He was the single part of you that was exposed. He was vulnerable, so they threatened him to draw you into action. That's what they do. That's what they did to me and my family.”

 

Derek nodded.

 

“Get up,” he said to Jeffrey. Jeffrey, despite his hands secured behind his back, flipped over and contorted his body with his knees so that he was, with some difficulty, able to finally stand up on his own two feet and face the werewolf.

 

The last thing Jeffrey saw before blackness was Derek's fist rushing towards his face, and the words, “I'm sorry.” He'd wake up there a while later, discovering his hands uncuffed, a couple bottles of water, and his wallet, still with everything in it, minus his driver's license and one fancy business card.

 

Derek got into the truck and startled Stiles who had been looking out the rolled down passenger window at the trees whispering softly in a fresh breeze. “How'd it go?” he asked Derek.

 

“Fine,” Derek responded tersely.

 

“What I meant was,” Stiles explained, “Did you kill him? As in, is he still alive? As in are you capable of walking away from something that's not a murder scene? As in...”

 

“Yes, Stiles. I let him go,” Derek cut him off. He started up the truck and pulled it onto the forest road.

 

“Did you find out anything?” asked Stiles.

 

“A little bit. We'll need to look up PsyNex when we can get to a cyber-cafe,” said Derek.

 

“I'll just look it up on my phone,” Stiles offered, “The 4g is surprisingly good out here.”

 

Derek slammed on the breaks, causing the truck to slide to a halt on the packed-earth road.

 

“You have your phone on you?” asked Derek, trying to contain any hint of how pissed off he'd suddenly become. Despite his best efforts, he wasn't able to keep it all in.

 

Stiles looked up apprehensively, phone in hand, thumb poised over the screen's keyboard. “Yeah....” he said.

 

“Ugggghhhhhh” moaned Derek, letting his forehead hit the top of the steering wheel. “I thought you were supposed to be the smart one in this relationship,” he muttered.

 

“Hey! I didn't call anybody,” Stiles said defensively, “And we've got that other guy's cellphone too!” he added.

 

“Oh yeah? How do you think we got it?” asked Derek. He turned the truck north on the forest road towards Frenchman's Lake.  He was going to take this mess and turn it to their advantage.  As they started up the gravel path, he said to Stiles, “If you need to make a call, do it now.”

 

Stiles dialed his dad's number, and while he waited for his father to pick up, he looked over at Derek and suddenly asked, “Wait, you really think I'm the smart one?”

 

Derek couldn't help but grin a little and he pulled Stiles close to him. He wrapped his arm around Stiles' shoulders and said teasingly, “I'm not so sure now."  He paused before adding in a reassuring voice,  "It'll be okay. I won't let you go any more.”


	4. To the Mountains

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Similar to Chapter 2, I wanted to post this before it's completely done and ready to go. Please forgive any rough edges, poor grammar, or egregious errors of any kind. I have a hard time resisting the urge to post something before it's quite done. Any changes that I make will be stylistic and functional, not related to the mechanics of the story in any way.

Stile's phone rang, and rang, and rang, and no one picked up. Stiles sighed with something that was a mixture of disappointment and also relief. The voice mail greeting started with the familiar sound of his father's voice and Stiles tried to prepare himself to leave a message. The beep sounded and Stiles gulped a little bit.

“Dad, it's Stiles. Listen, I want you to know I'm alright. I can't tell you where I am right now, but I'm safe. It might be a little bit before I can call you again, so don't worry if you call me and I don't pick up. I need you to know I'll call you again as soon as I safely can, and I also need you to know that I'm being looked after. And-” Stiles felt his eyes water a little bit and his voice cracked, “I need you to know I love you, and that I'll see you soon.”

He hung up the phone and almost immediately the silence pierced him. He didn't know what to do. He'd called and there was no answer. He'd left a message, but what could that give his father, really? He felt ashamed, and then again, he'd done his best. The questions surrounding how his father would feel, hearing his son alive and well, but with little explanation for the charred Jeep in the driveway, gradually gave way to the sound of the truck's engine humming along as they headed north on the road. Stiles resigned himself to doing what he could and not what he couldn't.

It didn't take too long to get to the lake. Derek had taken a Forest Road that diverged off the one that they'd been following North. It curved around slightly and led their truck to the edge of the serene lake in the forest, its blue waters veiled by a sky dotted with puffy, white clouds. Derek stopped the truck and pushed the stick into park. He turned off the engine and opened his door, as did Stiles who, without direction, supposed he should follow suit. “Do you have Jeffrey's phone?” asked Derek. Stiles nodded and pulled it out of his pocket, handing it to Derek. Derek put it in his left hand and reached out with his right and Stiles reached out to hold it. The two walked together onto the wood dock which extended out onto the lake.

“I'm not mad at you Stiles,” said Derek, looking out onto the water as they both held hands at the edge of the dock, “You didn't ask for this.” Stiles squeezed Derek's hand before replying, “You didn't ask for this either. But I did ask for you, and all the crazy shit that comes with you.”

Derek managed a small smile, albeit tinged with guilt about everything his lover had been through. Stiles looked into his eyes, and he understood what was behind them. Derek tossed Jeffrey's phone into the lake, and the plop of the cellphone hitting the water was soon followed by Stiles' own phone.

An hour-and-a-half later, they were close to being back in Reno. Stiles had fallen asleep against Derek's shoulder, but woke up as the truck came to a halt. He looked around, trying to orient himself, and noticed that they were in a drive-through. He saw the back of Derek's head hanging out the window, talking with someone. Derek leaned back into the vehicle and looked over at Stiles, his arm acting like a crane that delivered into Stiles' lap a bag of something that smelled deliciously deep fried. Stiles opened the bag only to be hit by the glorious combination of the sight and smell of curly fries.

“Arby's,” he whispered, eyes closed as he breathed in the aroma.

“I thought you might like some. You haven't eaten in a while and I figured you must be hungry,” Derek said, as he guided the truck out of the drive-through. “We're going to find a new ride and-” he rolled down his window, “We're going to trade this bitch in, if we can keep it from smelling like a fast food kitchen.”  
Stiles nodded his head, his eyes down-turned at the curls of golden goodness he was shoving into his mouth. “Mmmmph,” he replied as he reached across and rolled down the passenger side window, suddenly understanding Derek's practical preoccupation.

Stiles leaned back, resting against the bench seat as he tipped back his head and breathed a sigh of satisfaction from being incredibly hungry and going to incredibly full. He remembered the saying that, hunger was the best spice, but when it came to curly fries, Stiles could be full and make more room.

Twenty minutes of cruising around town and the two spotted a car dealership that looked like it might suit their needs. Grubb's Used Car Lot was full of promising vehicles, at least from a first glance. “This might work,” said Derek, turning in. He parked the truck, and before they could even think of stepping out, both could see a comically portly salesman who waddled hurriedly through the dealership doors straight towards them. Stiles and Derek both sighed in resignation to the inevitable and opened their doors, reluctantly getting out.

“Helloooooooo my friends, how are we doing this fine afternoon?” asked the salesman, puffing the words through labored breath, as he approached the pair. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped his brow as he stood there recovering.

“We're looking to buy a car,” said Stiles, “A truck, I think,” he said hesitantly as he glanced over at Derek. Derek nodded his head in affirmation before adding, “Something with 4x4.”

“Oh! You boys do a lot of off-roading?” asked the man congenially.  
“Only when we have to,” replied Derek.

The salesman gave a small laugh, not quite sure what that was supposed to mean, but ready to see the sale through. “Well, right this way, gentlemen. We have our trucks on this side of the lot. I'm sure you noticed them from the road. Were you looking for a new or used vehicle?”

“Used,” replied Derek.

“Perfect!” the salesman exclaimed, the fat rolls of his corpulent figure gyrating bizarrely beneath his shirt, as he hustled to lead the two men at a pace they both personally found to be quite reasonable.

“I noticed you had California plates when you came in,” started the man, trying to make small-talk.

“We still do,” said Stiles. He gave a small gasp as Derek reached over and pinched his earlobe.

“We're taking a road trip and we decided we might want a truck with a larger cab for when we meet up with friends along the way,” said Derek.

“Oh! Of course! We definitely have some trucks that will fit your needs,” replied the salesman, “Where's your road taking you?” he asked.

“Chicago,” said Derek quickly. “But mostly we're going to be spending our time in Colorado, Wyoming, Montana, it's not going to exactly be a straight line from here to there.”

“Well, you know what they say.... it's the journey not the destination,” quipped the man cheerfully.”

“Exactly,” Derek replied.

“So here,” said the salesman motioning to a gold-colored pick-up truck, “is a Chevy Silverado. Four-by-four, big crew cab, only five years-old.” Stiles pushed his lips downward, jerking his head to the side, as if to say, not bad. He glanced at Derek, who did not seem so impressed.

“Maybe. We may be looking for something a little cheaper,” he replied, as he looked at the sticker on the window.

“How much are you looking to spend?” asked the man, who picked up on Derek's apprehension on the price.

“Well, it depends on what you can give me for my truck as trade-in, but as a general rule, somewhere in the ten thousand range.

“Ah, got ya,” said the salesman. “And are you planning on paying cash or financing the purchase?”

“Cash,” replied Derek.

The salesman waddled over to another truck, “This might suit your needs,” he said patting the hood. It's a few years older and has some good mileage on it, but it's a Ford, and if you take care of it, it'll take care of you. Plus, it has everything you're looking for. Derek looked at the white F-150 4x4 crew cab. It had a sticker indicating it was a 2007 and even better was the sticker next to it that read $11,000.

“That's the one,” Derek said.  
“Fantastic!” the salesman said, “Let's go into the office and get the paperwork started.”

They were both seated in the office across from the salesman, but Derek could tell Stiles was restless, and knowing that he and the salesman were probably closer to a deal than not, asked Stiles if he might want to go outside and get some air for a bit, and when he felt like coming in, grab the black overnight bag that was under the driver's seat. Stiles nodded, and excused himself before leaving the room.

Stiles paced outside. He couldn't be in the little office with the two men as they exchanged familiar phrases, small jokes, and feigned congeniality. Besides the close quarters, the whole thing reeked of an insincere desire to get to some goal which upon its achievement would obliterate the false connection between the two. Stiles didn't know if the insincerity bothered him more than the fact that everyone knew it was insincere and went along with it, or if it was just the insufferable smallness of the salesman's office with its hideous off-white walls and grotesque motivational posters. He needed something to keep him preoccupied.

Stiles found the bag underneath the driver's seat and pulled it out. He closed the truck door, and it clanged shut with a heavy, final-sounding thud. He shuddered at the sound like someone counting the seconds between a lightning bolt and a thunderclap, startled by an enormous bang that arrives unexpectedly soon. Stiles paced outside the dealership for a while, breathing in the air and collecting his thoughts, only to throw his worries out and have them return on some sort of maleficent wind determined to see him anxious.

A few minutes of deep-breathing later though, and Stiles noticed that he'd calmed down considerably. He sighed, suddenly relieved. He headed inside, thinking himself now capable of returning to the little room.

Stiles opened the door shyly, then slinked in, slipping down into the seat just as he heard the salesman declare, “Well, that settles it then! Let's get your payment processed while we prep that new truck of yours!” Stiles breathed a sigh of relief as the two men stood up barely seconds after he'd sat down. The three made their way down the hall and the large salesman shuffled around the finance counter to give the paperwork to another man who gazed down at it and murmured, “Trade-in: $1,500, price negotiated: $11,000, remainder due at signing: $9,500.” He looked up from the forms and smiled, “How would you like to pay the balance due?”

Derek turned to Stiles and asked casually, “Stiles, would you get some cash out of my overnight bag?” Stiles looked down at the bag he was holding. _This is his overnight bag?_ Stiles wondered. He didn't see any other bags around. Stiles unzipped it and _Oh god_ , there had to be a hundred-thousand in cash inside. Stiles pulled out a stack of $100 bills tightly wrapped together with a denomination band which read $10,000. He handed it to Derek, nervous to be even touching so much money. The man behind the finance counter caught himself staring with huge eyes, and quickly readjusted his demeanor, saying pleasantly, “I see you'll be paying in cash...actual cash.”

“I don't believe in credit cards,” Derek said with a smile, as he removed five bills from the stack and handed the rest over.

Stiles sat in the cab of the truck as Derek drove them towards Las Vegas. The truck felt huge because the cabin was much bigger. Stiles liked it, but one thing bothered him. There was no bench seat, no space free to sidle up to Derek. Instead, they were separated by a large armrest, wide, with a hinged top and cup holders, and most importantly, in the way. Stiles didn't like it. As he touched it, examining the texture of the fabric, he noticed how durable it was and he wondered about the type of thread that they used, when suddenly he was startled back into reality by a big, hairy hand that descended, enveloping his own. Stiles rolled his hand to the left so his palm faced upwards within Derek's and they held on to each other as they went down the road. _Maybe an armrest is no big thing after all,_ thought Stiles.

“Where are we off to?” he asked a few minutes later.

“I figured we stop in Las Vegas tonight and then finish up the trip tomorrow. It's too far to make it in one night,” replied Derek.

Stiles was quiet for a moment. “You know, I'd rather get there earlier than later. You remember I can drive right? We could take turns.”

Derek shrugged his shoulders. Maybe it would be best. The faster they put some distance between PsyNex and themselves, the better. He pulled the truck over to the side of the road. “Okay,” he said, “You drive 'til we get to Las Vegas. Then we'll switch. You won't know where we're going once we're in Arizona.”

Stiles nodded his head in agreement and they switched places. He quickly pulled the truck back onto the highway gaining speed as he passed a green sign on the right: Las Vegas- 386 miles.

“Yeah, by the way, where exactly are we going in Arizona?” Stiles asked.

“You wouldn't know it,” dismissed Derek.

“I might,” responded an indignant Stiles.

“Pinedale,” Derek said, as he reclined the passenger seat, giving a sigh as he leaned back, “It's near Pinedale. Pinedale and Snowflake. Ever heard of those?”

“No,” said Stiles defensively.

“Most people haven't. And that's why we're going there,” Derek said.

“But why are we going there really? I mean there are plenty of places no one's ever heard of,” said Stiles.

“My family has had a ranch there for years. It's safe there- it's remote, little known, far away from PsyNex... at least I hope,” hesitated Derek.

“And what exactly will we be doing there? Just sitting around in some god-forsaken desert, petting cactuses?” asked Stiles.

“First of all, it's cacti,” said Derek, “and second of all, not all of Arizona is desert,” he said matter-of-factly, amused at the thought of having bested his little Internet research champion.

Stiles was silent as he brooded at the rebuttal. Derek thought the whole thing was funny, but didn't want it to get out of hand. “I think you'll like it,” he continued, “Plus you'll get to see Scott.”

Stiles jerked his head to the right to look at Derek excitedly. “Scott's going to be there?!?”

“Eyes on the road,” replied Derek calmly. Stiles obeyed and returned his attention to the highway taking them to Las Vegas, and then onwards to who-the-hell-knows-where, Arizona.

Five or so hours had passed and Stiles could begin to see the lights of the city glowing against the sky's horizon before even seeing Las Vegas itself. He looked over at Derek, who was sleeping, having drifted off a few hours before. It was close to midnight, and Stiles himself was getting tired, although he'd never admit it to Derek. He was just happy that his fatigue crept up on him as he neared the point where they'd change places and Derek would take over. He decided to look for a gas station to gas up, and change spots. A few miles later, as the edges of the suburbs crept past the windows of the truck, Stiles spotted a 24-hour gas station and pulled in.

Stiles nudged Derek, who let out a “Whaaa?” as he came to. “We're here,” said Stiles, “I'm going to get us some gas and then we can switch.”

“Don't use your credit card,” replied Derek.

“I have cash,” replied Stiles. He hopped out of the car and was secretly thankful for the fact that his father had always insisted he carry $100 in cash in his wallet for emergencies, not that he needed it. There was plenty of money in Derek's 'overnight bag,' but it helped him save face from having to admit that he hadn't thought to not use his credit card, and probably would have, had Derek not said something. God help them if he had.

The two switched spots and the truck rolled out of the gas station. Derek prepared to turn back onto the highway, as Stiles re-reclined the passenger seat slightly and whispered, “Ah... this is nice.” He could still see the city lights through the window. He had never been to Vegas, but wanted to be able to see, if he could, the famous Strip, even if they wouldn't be stopping there. He had to settle for some glimpses of the signs and lights from the casinos in the distance as they drove down the freeway, but all those lights quickly went from crisp to blurry as his eyes closed shut and he fell asleep.

_____

Stiles woke up as he felt the truck come to a gentle halt. It was still mostly dark outside, but the surroundings were different- there were tall trees, and they were stopped in front of a restaurant- 'The Beeline Cafe.' “What's going on?” Stiles asked in a groggy voice. “Thought we'd get some breakfast,” said Derek, “Are you hungry?”

“Mhmmm,” hummed Stiles, his head nodding in the affirmative as he rubbed his eyes. The two got out of the car, and Derek led the way into the small diner. Stiles followed closely behind, and not two seconds after hearing the bell on the door ring shrilly as it shut behind him, he heard a woman's voice ahead, the owner of which was blocked from his view by Derek's body.

“Derek Hale! My word, it's been ages!”

Stiles stepped to the side to see what was going on, and he saw a ginger woman, hair piled on top of her head, clad in a teal button up shirt and checkered apron and carrying an order pad. She was quickly approaching Derek and wrapped her arms around him.

“Hello, Louise,” said Derek. “It's been a long time, I know. I need to come out more often,” he continued.

“You sure do! We miss you out here! How's Maria doing? We haven't seen her around much lately either,” replied the waitress.

“Oh, she's around. You know how she is. She just disappears from time to time, but she's never far away” Derek said.

“Well, tell her she needs to come in soon and get some pie. I've been working on a new recipe and I need her expert opinion. You want some breakfast?” she asked.

Derek nodded, and she seated them next to the window and gave them each some menus. Stiles secretly wanted chocolate milk, but ordered some coffee instead, hoping it would wake him up a bit. The waitress asked what they wanted to eat, and Stiles, not seeing it on the menu, asked meekly, “Do you have pancakes?”

“We can whip some up for you, don't you worry about it,” the waitress smiled.

“Could you make them with chocolate chips?” he dared to ask.

“Sure hun,” she beamed. She looked over at Derek, “What'll you have dear?”

“The chicken fried steak, eggs, and hash browns, a bowl of pozole, and-” He looked over at Stiles, “Two chocolate milks.”

A little while later Stiles was finishing off the last of his stack of pancakes and feeling perfectly satisfied. He looked up at Derek who had demolished his plate, but who was still working on his pozole. He turned his head and gazed through the window that looked out onto the highway serving as the main strip of the town. He saw lots of quaint little squat structures: antique shops and restaurants, all wood and surrounded by tall pine trees. Every so often a truck or motorcycle would rumble past, but otherwise it was peaceful.

“This is a nice little town,” Stiles said to Derek approvingly, admiring the blue sky, “I think I kind of like Pinedale.”

“I'm glad you like it,” said Derek, “But this Payson. It's going to be another couple of hours.”

"Oh," replied Stiles looking down at his empty plate, before his head popped up again,  "Hey, who's the Maria person the waitress mentioned?"

Derek gave a sly smile, "You'll see," he said cryptically, as he sank back into his chair, content and full from his meal.

Derek glanced up at the television in the corner of the cafe. It was playing a commercial for a new prescription weight-loss medication. His heart dropped a little as the name of the drug appeared on the screen with a logo of six orange dots in a semi-circle appearing next to it.

The two said their goodbyes to the waitress after finishing breakfast. They gassed up the truck and Derek turned it East. The coffee must have been something strong because Stiles felt wide-awake now, the memory of his pre-breakfast fatigue a distant, forgotten thing. He looked out the the rolled-down window as the trees rushed by, occasionally broken by a clearing and a small pond or lake. At one point he sat up suddenly, and Derek at first was startled, until he saw that Stiles had been roused by the sight of elk not far from the roadside. They certainly seemed calmer spotting him, as they quickly returned to their elk foraging business.

Stiles lost track of time, but it had definitely been more than an hour, probably closer to an hour and a half, but he finally saw a sign indicating Pinedale was only a few miles away. Just as his anticipation began to rise at finally arriving though, he was surprised as Derek turned the car left off the highway onto a Forest Road and drove them North into the forest.

“So it's not in Pinedale?” Stiles asked, disappointed.

“No. I told you it's somewhere between Pinedale and Snowflake,” replied Derek.

They really were out in the middle of nowhere.

The truck continued up the path for a good twenty minutes, rolling along a little more slowly on the bumpy dirt road, before taking a left at a little forest road sign marked FRS239, with another, little sign underneath, that read “Coyote Ranch.”

Stiles stared through the windshield as they made their way up the single lane road for just a couple hundred feet before reaching an iron cattle gate. Derek put the truck into park and got out, flipping up the metal hitch holding the gate in place, and swinging it open. As he did so, Stiles could hear the unmistakable sound of a shotgun being pumped, _click-click_ , and he turned his head quickly towards the source of the sound.

“Just wanted to make sure you knew that just because you're not around doesn't mean security's lax,” said Isaac, who sat comfortably about ten feet off the ground on the branch of a tall ponderosa tree that stood off to the right and a dozen feet before from the gate, which had given given him a perfect view of the two of them from the back as Derek had been busy unhitching the gate.

Whether Derek was sincere or not, he played it well, and he coolly turned and said, “Hello Isaac. Thanks for manning security, although I could smell you from a mile away. Maybe a little less cologne next time?” Isaac smirked as he pulled the shotgun back so it rested on his leg, pointing at the sky.

“Why do you have a shotgun?” asked Stiles, not even bothering to say hello, “Aren't you a werewolf?”

“Yeah, but this way I don't have to get down to rip someone to shreds,” said Isaac lazily.

“Nice,” whispered Stiles, trying to keep his sarcasm subdued, but knowing full-well Isaac would hear it anyway.

Derek swung open the gate and walked back to the truck, starting it up and driving it through before jumping out to close the gate again. “Who's relieving you?” he asked Isaac.

“Danny. But not for another couple of hours,” Isaac said.

“Alright, well I'll make sure he comes down,” Derek said.

Derek climbed back into the truck and they drove up the dirt road a ways more- by Stiles' estimation another 500 feet. The woods cleared as the little road bent, and Stiles stared into the clearing at a beautiful cabin, although he wasn't sure he could call it that. Cabins were supposed to be quaint little log domiciles in the middle of the woods. The location was right on, and the house certainly appeared to be log constructed, but judging from the three stories of the immense structure, Stiles would guess the logs were more for show than they were the actual building material.

Derek parked the truck in the gravel just off the entrance to a porch which wrapped around the house. It was lined with rocking chairs, all empty at the moment, as was the gravel area in front of the house, save for their truck and a couple of sedans with California plates.

They both got out and Derek opened the back passenger door of the crew cab, pulling out the duffel bags and slinging them over his shoulder. He headed up to the house and Stiles followed behind him. Derek opened the front door. It was unlocked.

“You have someone guarding the gate to your house with a shotgun, but you leave the front door unlocked?” asked Stiles incredulously.

“Do you think if they made it past a werewolf with a shotgun that a locked door is going to stop them?” Derek asked.

They walked in, and the foyer immediately expanded out to the left and the right into two seating areas. Straight ahead, on the left and right were two staircases which led up to the second floor, and between them the hall continued straight on to an open kitchen, backed by huge windows. Stiles could see someone at the kitchen island sitting on a bar stool, and as they walked in further, he recognized it was Scott, who seemed busy eating a sandwich. Scott turned around at the approaching footsteps, and he threw down what was left of his sandwich.

“Stiles!” Scott yelled. Stiles dropped the small bag he was carrying and rushed towards Scott, and they wrapped each other in a huge hug. “I'm so happy to see you,” said Scott. “I missed you bud,” Stiles replied. They let go of one another, but then Scott's arms came up to rest on Stiles' shoulders. “Did you make it out okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” responded Stiles coolly, “Yeah, a couple hiccups, but no big deal.” He couldn't but glance over at the woman standing with her back to them, washing dishes at the sink. Stiles couldn't tell who she was, but the lady was enormous.

The woman, shaped rather like a Christmas ornament, swung her head around in a manner reminiscent of an owl, as Derek entered into the kitchen. Stiles clapped his hands over his ears. “MIIIIIIIIIJOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!” shrieked the lady with a huge smile, tearing off her yellow rubber gloves, and rotating herself awkwardly to waddle as fast as she could over to Derek.

Derek smiled and he put his bags on the ground, going over to meet her and hug her tightly. “Hello Maria,” he said. There was a sweetness and a lightness in his voice that Stiles knew meant she was someone very special to him.

“Why don't you call me before you leave California?” she said pulling away from Derek.

“We had to go in a hurry, and it got a little busy on the way, but I'll tell you all about it when I get this one settled in,” he said, glancing over to Stiles.

Maria looked over at the pale, small Stiles standing in the middle of the kitchen next to Scott. She looked over at Derek for a moment, “This is your _novio_?”

Derek nodded yes. Maria looked back at Stiles with a blank expression. Stiles felt on edge for a moment, feeling judged. Then suddenly Maria threw up her hands and rushed towards him with a huge smile: “Blanquitoooooooooo!” she yelled, wrapping him up. Stiles would have fallen over from the mere momentum of her extraordinarily large body meeting with his, but she held him fast, squeezing him into her.

Finally she released him and and Stiles gasped for breath, trying not to make it too obvious that he'd almost suffocated from her well-meant greeting.

“Mijo,” she said looking very concerned, “You must be very hungry after your journey," She threw up her hand, a finger pointing toward the sky, "I make you something.”

Stiles hesitated, glancing at Derek. "Um," he began, “Actually, we stopped in Payson at this diner to eat not too long ago, so I'm actually okay for right now, but thank you.”

Maria raised her eyebrows, and looked over at Derek. “Oh, so you went to eat in Payson, did you?” Derek looked off to the side, seeming to shrink a little bit. Suddenly the pressure was off Stiles.

“Maria, it's just... it was a long drive and I wanted to make sure we got something to eat. I didn't want to bother you unannounced.” Derek shrugged his shoulders helplessly, “ It would have been rude to show up like that and expect to be fed,” he explained.

“Agh!” Maria exclaimed, “Did you expect you might starve here? Have I ever turned you away when you were hungry _lobito_?”

“No!” Derek said quickly and then hesitated, “I... I just wanted to make sure Stiles didn't die from hunger before he had a chance to eat your food. That would have been a crime greater than anything. Plus,” he added looking over at Stiles, “He likes to cook, and I needed him well-fed so he could help you in the kitchen. I want him to learn from you so even when we're not around, I can taste something of home. You can forgive me Maria, can't you please?”

The enormous woman looked incredulous for a moment. Then she broke out in a big smile. “Claro, _lobito_.” She waddled over to Derek and gave him a kiss on the cheek and returned to the sink. As she put her gloves back on she crooned over her shoulder, “Eh-Scott! How was your sandwich?”

“It was great Maria, thank you!” Scott said.

“Good! Now you can help me peel these potatoes!” She cried cheerfully.

Scott gave a smile as he bowed his head for a moment. He looked over at Stiles and said, “I'll see you in a little bit,” and he headed over to help her.

Derek picked up the bags and he motioned for Stiles to come with him. He led him back out to the foyer and up the stairs. Down the hallway to the right at the very end on the left, Derek opened a door that led into a large bedroom with a fireplace on the right wall and a four-post bed to the left. A doorway on the left side of the bed led into a bathroom, and the far wall had large windows that let in the cheery sun that shone outside.

“Let's unpack,” Derek said.


	5. Splorin' and Shoppin'

Stiles helped unpack the few bags they had brought in and Derek put some of the cash from his 'overnight bag' in the nightstand next to the bed. He re-zipped the bag and dropped it to the floor, pushing it underneath the bed. Stiles finished putting Derek's clothes into the dresser which sat angled in the corner between the wall with the fireplace to the right and the farthest wall from the bedroom door. He turned to his left, and he stopped for a moment as he looked out the windows, suddenly noticing what was outside. The view was... Stiles didn't know how to describe it. The words spectacular and idyllic came to mind, but he wasn't sure how to contain the view in a handful of letters.

Below him was an enormous wood deck that extended out from the covered porch that wrapped around the whole of the cabin. The deck ended with a railing and steps down to the right and left which both led to the grass below. In the grass, a little ways from from the patio, sat a chiminea and some chairs circling it. Farther off and to the right, there was a circular horse corral with a large barn next to it. And beyond the chiminea, was an expanse of grass, then trees, and then mountains that rose up gently, dotted densely with pine, silhouetted by a blue sky.

Stiles sighed at it all. He looked down at the bags and there was nothing left to unpack. He pushed them underneath the big bed, and went back to the dresser to close the drawer. He noticed as he did so, however, that not a single thing in it was his.

“Derek?” Stiles yelled.

“Yeah?” Derek yelled back from the bathroom. From the sound of it, Stiles had caught him in the middle of brushing his teeth.

“I don't have any clothes...” said Stiles.

“Oh,” Derek shouted back in reply. Stiles could hear the sound of Derek continuing to brush his teeth, and then the sound of water, a gurgle, a spit, and the sound of the faucet turning off.

Derek emerged from the bathroom shirtless with a freshly washed face and a towel wrapped around his neck. “It doesn't bother me if you don't have any clothes if it doesn't bother you,” he grinned, as he stepped forward and grabbed Stiles by the waist. He pulled him in and planted a kiss on his forehead and leaned back a second.

“I think it might bother some of the others,” Stiles said.

Derek smiled, “I'll take you into town a little later,” he reassured him.

“Wait, we're going to go all the way back to Payson?” Stiles asked.

“No, there's a town a little farther down the road, about thirty minutes from here. Hope you like Walmart clothing,” Derek said with a grin.

“The things I do for you,” Stiles replied grimly, as he pecked Derek on the lips.

“I'm worth it,” replied Derek, jokingly.

 Stiles sighed, “Yeah.... yeah you are.”

 

The two went downstairs and returned to the kitchen.

“Ayyyy!!!!” Maria exclaimed, “Did you get unpacked?”

“Yes,” said Derek, “We also realized Stiles has no clothes at all, so I'm taking him into Show Low later to go to Walmart.”

“Good! You can go get groceries for me too!” cried Maria ecstatically, “And no te preocupes, mijo, you can borrow a clean shirt of mine, until later!”

Stiles stared at the humongous Mexican woman in disbelief, “What- I mean, no I'm okay for now, it won't be long-”

“No,” interrupted Derek who was looking at Maria with a sly grin, “No, Maria's right. You smell. Go take a shower.”

“What?!? I don't smell!” exclaimed Stiles indignantly.

“Go ahead, Stiles, the lavender soap is amazing,” Scott assured him grinning.

Stiles stomped upstairs and undressed. He took a shower in the large bathroom of the master suite. It was tiled in travertine with granite counters and a big square glass shower that was lined in little blue-green tiles that gleamed. A huge, flat shower head descended from the ceiling over the middle of the glass enclosure. As he relaxed under the cascade of warm water, the scent of lavender reached Stiles' nose, and he had to admit, it did smell wonderful. He shut off the water and dried himself off with a thick white towel which he wrapped around his waist as he went back out to the bedroom.

Stiles was displeased to see his shirt was missing, replaced, he assumed because of the size, by one of Maria's. _Fine, if that's how they want to play it_ , he thought as he went over to take one of Derek's shirts, which would be ill-fitting, but not _that_ ill-fitting. He pulled on the drawer. It was locked. _God_ _d_ _amnit_ Stiles muttered under his breath.

Scott was helping Maria chop tomatoes and onions while Derek sat at the island talking to Danny who had come into the kitchen after working on the computer in the basement den. He looked up as Stiles slowly entered the room. He was wearing an enormous black t-shirt that came down close to his knees, was slipping off one shoulder, and was emblazoned with the words “Party Time” in huge, neon-yellow lettering. The shirt hung like a dress over Stiles' slim-cut jeans. Stiles looked pissed, and everyone broke up laughing for what seemed to him like an eternity. He wasn't going to live this one down.

“Ayyy que bello eres!” exclaimed Maria. She leaned over in his direction, “And the best part is, mijo,” her hand held up to her mouth, feigning a whisper, “It glows in the dark!” Everyone started laughing again, Maria's cackling particularly poignant among them.

Scott calmed down after a little while. “Hey Stiles, why don't I show you around the ranch?” he managed to ask through a huge grin and a couple fits of giggles.

“Fine,” Stiles responded through clenched teeth. Any excuse to get out of there was good for him. He walked mechanically across the kitchen and followed Scott out the glass door and across the deck, down the stairs to the grass where an ATV was parked. Scott got on and looked over at Stiles. He waved his hand, “Come on! Jump on the back!” Stiles hesitated, then walked over and mounted the back of the ATV, lifting the bottom of his enormous shirt like a dress. Scott reached behind himself and pulled Stiles' hands forward and then around his stomach, “Hold onto me.” He started the four wheeler and Stiles blushed when he heard another outburst of hysterical laughter from back in the house.

Stiles held on tight as the ATV accelerated and they began to pick up speed down the pasture and towards a stand of trees a ways away. The bumps in the uneven terrain made him glad he was holding tight, as he felt himself lift just a little, more than once, from the seat of the four-by-four.

Scott drove them down through the stand of pine and slowed down a bit. Stiles looked around at the dry pine needles that covered the forest floor, and he breathed in the smell of vanilla that emanated from the bark of the trees. The sudden change of scenery, the shade, and the aroma of the pine made him forget remarkably fast about the embarrassing shirt incident. As Scott drove a little further, Stiles could begin to hear the sound of water flowing and the soothing bubbling of the creek up ahead made him feel better.

Scott parked the ATV near the edge of the creek and shut off the motor. Stiles unclasped his hands from around Scott's waist and dismounted, Scott following suit. Stiles looked past the creek to the other side, and a little further noticed a fence and a gate. “Is that the edge of the property?” he asked.

“Yeah, beyond that is Forest Service land. The ranch has grazing rights on it though, and that's actually where the cattle are right now, beyond that gate and over the hill,” said Scott.

“This is pretty,” said Stiles absent-mindedly, surveying everything around him.

“I know” said Scott, “Derek says this is all part of something called the 'Mogollon Rim.' It runs west and east and divides 'the high country' from the 'low country,' or at least, that's what the locals call it,” Scott explained. “Maria, says they come down here to the creek to fish sometimes, but I haven't yet... Actually, I've never fished, come to think of it,” Scott admitted. “Me neither,” said Stiles, “Maybe we'll try our hand at it one of these days.”

“And over here, there's a campfire ring,” continued Scott. “Maybe we could come down here tomorrow night and hang. Catch up, you, me, Isaac, and Danny?” he asked.

“Yeah, that sounds like a plan,” said Stiles hesitantly. He would have preferred if it were just the two of them.

“You wanna go see the forest, and the grazing ranges?” asked Scott. “Okay,” said Stiles, and they both got back onto the ATV. Stiles wrapped his arms around his best friend and Scott guided the four-wheeler slowly through the creek at a shallow point a little upstream. The two spent a couple of hours riding around, taking in vistas of vast grazing spaces and blue-purple mountains. The sun was shining and the air was clear and crisp and a breeze blew with a carelessness that made everything calm in Stiles' mind.

The two eventually drove back up towards the ranch house. As they made their way through the trees, Stiles remembered all of the times they spent exploring the woods together in Beacon Hills. That was back when they hadn't all become busy with murder, death, monsters, and saving the world. Somehow in that moment, there in the woods, his arms wrapped around his best friend, his mind was able to reach out and touch that time and transport it back. Stiles gave a small smile as he allowed himself to live a brief moment of the past, a past he admitted he missed.

They reached the house and Scott parked the ATV by the stairs that led up to the deck. They trudged up the steps towards the kitchen. When Stiles opened the door, a waft of something, _oh my god_ ,something delicious, hit his nose. He turned around to look at Scott who smiled, understanding the taken-aback face Stiles made. “Yeah, this is pretty much how they roll around here,” Scott said casually, shrugging his shoulders.

“What is that?” gasped Stiles.

“FLAUTAS!!!!!” screamed Maria, as she waddled energetically about the kitchen.

Danny sat at the island, facing the cooking area. He looked deep in thought. His arms were crossed and resting on the granite counter, supporting his hunched-over frame.

Stiles went over to him. They had never been exactly friends. Danny always had shown a bit of contempt towards Stiles. Maybe it wasn't contempt. He'd always seemed distant though, and Stiles had taken it a little personally. But he tried to put that aside as he approached the perpetually-disinterested looking teen.

“So I thought, if it's okay with you,” Stiles paused, “Maybe I could hang out with you and work on some research? Maybe you could show me what they have to work with around here tech-wise?” Stiles suggested, guffawing affectedly, “I mean, do they even get Internet out here?”

Danny's eyes shifted to connect with Stiles', “Yes,” he said coolly, “They have very good Internet out here.” Stiles nodded his head up and down, “Oh. Well that's good,” he whispered, suddenly feeling very awkward.

Maria made her way over, plopping down a plate in front of Danny and then one on the corner of the island closest to Stiles. “Mijos, you must eat! Crema, salsa, pico, guacamole,” she said, waving her hand at the condiment dishes on the counter.

Danny moved begrudgingly from his bar stool but just as he was getting up, Maria grabbed one of his wrists still on the counter. “Ey! This is to-go, _para llevar_ , for you two. You take Stiles downstairs to your computer dungeon and show him the strings. _Me comprendes?”_ Danny nodded, looking none too pleased. “Okay,” he muttered, grabbing his plate. “It's ropes,” Stiles heard Danny mutter as he walked away with his plate.

The two descended down a flight of stairs through a door in the hallway, Danny leading the way. As Stiles reached the bottom, he saw the stairwell open up into a furnished basement. It was, in fact, more than that. Off to the right was a reasonably-sized space with a desk that wrapped around the corner of the wall and supported several computers, a couple of printers, and some other miscellanea such as headphones and office supplies. Stiles noticed to his left that in the other corner was a semi-circular couch facing a large television. In the stand beneath the television Stiles could make out at least three different gaming systems and rows of games filed neatly, visible through the glass doors enclosing two of the stand's shelves.

Stiles noticed another door in the wall opposite the stairwell. He walked over, plate still in hand, and he opened it. On the other side was the part of the basement that faced out towards the backyard, and it felt much different. It actually had large windows that looked out over the grass, shaded from the deck above, and there was a door that led outside on the left. The room had a pool table, a television mounted on the wall up high, a vintage jukebox, and a freestanding wood and brass bar that stood in the corner. _Nice_ , thought Stiles as he closed the door to return to the more confined computer room.

Danny was already sitting at one of the computers in the corner. He was bent over, devouring the flautas, and despite his best efforts was unable to mask the subtle grunting and groaning sounds that came with a truly delicious meal met with genuine hunger. Stiles watched for a moment, having plopped himself down in one of the computer chairs, but finally looked away to his own plate, having suddenly felt weirdly voyeuristic.

He picked up one of the flautas and as he took a spoon to assemble some of the condiments, he tried his best to make casual conversation, to try to break through, or at least chip away at Danny's bad mood. “So,” he started, his eyes still fixed on his plate, “We good bro?” 

Stiles immediately regretted his choice of words when they were met with a silence which was then interrupted with the sound of a metal spoon dropping onto a plate.

The dramatic beginning of Danny's response to his question did not play out as he might have suspected though. “Yeah,” sighed Danny, “We're good,” he said staring down, forlornly, at his own plate. Stiles hadn't been expecting that.

“Oh,” he replied, “So... what's got you down?” he asked, curious to find out what was going on.

“Stiles, I'm not a werewolf,” Danny said.

“I know, but if you hadn't noticed, neither am I.”

Danny shook his head, “I know, Stiles. So what are we doing here? What am _I_ doing here?”

“Well, I'm here because these PsyNex guys tried to kill me,” said Stiles.

“Because you're involved with a werewolf,” Danny replied.

Stiles paused a moment., “Wait, is this about Ethan?”

“No,” said Danny.

“Because it kind of seems like it might have something to do with Ethan...” Stiles continued.

“Okay,” Danny said, “Maybe a little.” “It's just that, look, I broke up with him because I knew I couldn't handle being in a relationship with a werewolf, for exactly these sorts of reasons: things just get too crazy. But here I am, after making that very hard decision, and despite it all, I'm still caught up in it.”

“And you resent that. That's understandable. But you're helping your friends,” said Stiles, “Think about it that way.”

“Yeah, I guess you're right,” said Danny reluctantly.

“So what have you found out about PsyNex?” asked Stiles trying to change the subject and shift the mood.

“A lot, and yet, the more we find out, the more we realize we don't know,” replied Danny, who turned now and began tapping away at his keyboard, suddenly in down-to-business mode. He pulled up a map of North America, with red dots of various sizes in various locations across it.

“First of all, their primary presence is on the west coast.” He pointed to the two largest dots, “You can see here, they have two main headquarters: San Francisco and Vancouver, BC.” He moved his finger around the map, “And you can see they also have additional facilities of different types and sizes in Washington state and Oregon.

“What about this one?” asked Stiles, pointing to a dot clear on the other side of the map on the east coast.

“Ah,” said Danny, “That's where it gets interesting. That is PsyNex's east coast presence, its only east coast presence in fact, and it's Arlington, Virginia. Does anything else in Arlington come to mind?” he asked.

Stiles considered for a moment. At first he thought of the cemetery, but that was stupid, what would they want with a bunch of dead people? Then it hit him, “The Pentagon. The Pentagon's in Arlington,” he said.

“Yep,” Danny confirmed, “And Washington, DC is just across the river. Turns out PsyNex isn't just a pharmaceutical company. It's a major contractor with the US military. In fact, they bring in hundreds of millions of dollars in contracts from the US government, and not just the US government, but Canada and some other NATO countries.” 

“So they've got friends in high places, huh?” said Stiles rhetorically.

“And friends with guns,” added Danny.

“Not only are they closely linked with the military, they also contract with intelligence agencies, law enforcement, you name it. On top of that, while they do a lot of work in pharmaceuticals on the civilian side, the bigger part of their contracting work in the defense industry is actually in technology: biotech, nanotech, that sort of thing,” Danny continued.

“Here,” he said slapping a thick manila folder down on the counter in front of Stiles, “Some reading for you.”

“Thanks,” Stiles said, looking down at all the research Danny had done. He was impressed.

“Do we know anything about what it is specifically they want with werewolves?” asked Stiles, anxious to know more.

“Not really, but I think we'll find out soon,” said Danny. “Peter's been up north in Seattle doing reconnaissance at their facility up there. He's been working with packs in different cities all up and down the coast to try to figure out what's going on and maybe organize something to fight back,” he said.

“Funny, I wouldn't have thought of Peter as the obvious choice for a goodwill ambassador,” said Stiles sarcastically.

“He may not be a charmer, but he is good at playing politics: organizing, delegating, appealing to peoples' needs and fears,” said Danny. “But most of all, he loves being at the center of power, and you can bet where there's power to be had, he won't be far away,” he said.

 _Yep._ _That sounds more like the Peter I know_ , thought Stiles.

“Anyway,” added Danny, “I'm sure he'll tell us all about what he's been up to at the big pack meeting tomorrow night.”

“Big pack meeting?” asked Stiles.

“Yeah,” said Danny with a bit of confusion in his voice, “Derek didn't tell you about it?”

“No,” said Stiles suddenly feeling left out.

Danny reassured him, “Oh well, I'm sure it just slipped his mind. Things have been so hectic lately, you know.”

“Anyway, yeah, there's going be a bunch of packs gathering for a meeting tomorrow night at midnight-” Danny hesitated, “So I guess not really tomorrow but the day after, at midnight, but they'll come trickling in long before that.”

“Why midnight? Seems like a weird time to schedule a meeting,” said Stiles.

“Apparently events like this don't happen very often, but when they do take place, they take place at midnight,” said Danny, “Well, that's what I was told anyway. I guess in werewolf culture, it's as normal a time as scheduling a lunch meeting at noon.”

Just as Danny finished explaining, the door to the basement opened and Derek's head peaked out from the doorway. “Hey Stiles, you ready to go to Walmart?”

Stiles nodded okay.

“Alright, let's get going then,” he said as his head turned and he disappeared up the stairs.

“Wait!” yelled Stiles. Derek's head reappeared a second later. Stiles was standing up now, looking serious.

“Give me my shirt back,” He said, “I'm not going to Walmart dressed _in this_ ,” he said with the open hands of his outstretched arms presenting the tent-like abomination he was swimming in.

Danny couldn't help but laugh, “He's right Derek, it wouldn't be a good idea to let him out in public like that. It's not California. People here don't have an appreciation for _couture_.”

Derek grinned, though Stiles did not find it sufficiently funny to manage a smile. “Okay,” conceded Derek, “I'll leave it in on the bed. Come meet me in the truck when you're ready,” he said. He disappeared up the stairs, but the echo of his voice was plenty loud for Stiles to hear him yell, “And stop being such a Sour Stiles!”

Stiles went upstairs and put the file Danny gave him on the nightstand before removing the ill-given shirt and putting on his own. “Party time, my ass,” he muttered, as he left the bedroom and went to join Derek who was smiling because he could hear every word Stiles said out loud, walls or no walls.

Stiles climbed into the cab and Derek backed the truck out and turned it around. They headed down the Forest Road, then onto the highway to Show Low and the closest Walmart. "Shit," said Derek suddenly, a minute after they'd turned onto the road towards the town. 

"What is it?" asked Stiles. 

"I forgot to remind Danny to go relieve Isaac down at the gate," admitted Derek.

"Oops. Oh well!" Stiles said, sounding carefree, as he secretly hoped Danny would lose himself for hours in front of the computer, forgetting it was his turn to take watch.

They arrived at the Walmart and parked. It was getting to be late afternoon and shadows were starting to show a little more, creeping out from every object. They headed inside and Derek, pushing the cart, accompanied Stiles to the clothing section. “Pick out what you want. Try on what you want. I'm going to go do Maria's shopping. I'll come back in a little bit,” he said. Stiles nodded and began his search for suitable clothes among the many racks.

Stiles picked out some plain colored t-shirts and some plaid, button-up shirts, not too different from what he'd normally wear at home. He really didn't think much about it all, because, at the end of the day, he was a fairly casual dresser. He didn't even bother to try them on. He just left them with the very frail-looking, but pleasant lady managing the fitting room kiosk, as he went to find a couple of pairs of jeans, which he tried on to find the right size. Besides that he was almost set. He grabbed some socks and some underwear, and tried on a pair of hiking boots which he took too, considering where he was staying. He was hanging out by the fitting room kiosk, trying to avoid but nevertheless becoming engaged in a reluctant conversation with the old lady who asked him where he was from. Stiles lied, which he felt guilty about, and told her Fresno, to which she lit up, and began telling him about how she had lived there once when her father was stationed at the airbase.

Much to Stiles' relief, Derek came into view pushing a shopping cart filled with groceries. He motioned for Stiles who jumped at the opportunity to avoid having to create some further-fabricated story, awkwardly agreeing and sighing in fake nostalgia for some restaurant or park the old lady would undoubtedly ask him if he remembered. He scooped up the clothing and the shoes and piled them onto the cart and wished the lady a good day and they were off to check out.

As they made their way to the cash register, Stiles spotted two little girls who were running circles around a shopping cart pushed by their father who wore a serious expression under his baseball cap. He had on jeans and a camouflage t-shirt, but Stiles jumped a little out of his skin when he saw the black semi-auto pistol strapped in a holster on his belt. Derek could sense Stiles' sudden spike in heart rate and blood pressure and looked over. “What 's wrong? Oh...” Derek smiled, cutting himself off.

“Is that even legal?” asked Stiles in disbelief.

“Yes, and believe me,” Derek reassured him, “You're the only one in here who looked twice.”

Stiles was silent, in disbelief. “Oh hi Sherry,” said Derek pleasantly, greeting the cashier at an open till, “How are your parents?”

Fifteen minutes later they were leaving the parking lot after getting everything loaded into the truck. A little later, just about when Derek would have turned North back to the ranch, he instead turned South. “Where are we going?” asked Stiles, who noticed the odd change of direction. “I want to show you something,” said Derek cryptically.

They drove down a Forest Road for a short while and then they slowed at a sign that read: “Caution- Road Ending.” About twenty feet farther on and Stiles could see a railing at what he assumed was the actual end. Derek pulled the truck over at a turn-off point and then turned the truck around.

“Well, this was fun,” Stiles said sarcastically.

Derek gave a short short laugh, “Shut up,” he said, shaking his head in amusement, as he put the truck in reverse and backed it to just a half-dozen feet from the railing. He turned off the engine and Stiles followed his lead as he got out of the truck and headed around to put down the tail gate.

Stiles came around to see what Derek was up to but stopped short as he was hit with the view beyond the railing. They were parked at the edge of a cliff that looked out on rolling hills and mountains covered in forest. They stretched for miles and miles to the South and East. A cool breeze blew up the side of the cliff, and Stiles sat back on the tailgate, soaking in the vast splendor of the nature laid in front of him. Derek sat down next to Stiles. They both were lost in their own thoughts, painted with the purple and pink hues of the sky, brushed by the sun that gradually set in the West.

“This is beautiful,” whispered Stiles.

“You're beautiful,” said Derek, looking at Stiles as he gently slid the back of his hand down his cheek. Stiles blushed, his eyes still transfixed on the view below. Derek's hand slid under Stiles' chin and turned his head toward him. The two began to kiss, slowly and sensuously at first, then more deeply, with hot, wet tongues and heavy breathing.

Stiles moaned as he felt Derek's hand unbutton his jeans. Derek broke their kiss long enough to say, “Stand up,” which Stiles did almost immediately. His eyes were closed as they continued to kiss, and he could feel Derek pull down his zipper and slide his jeans and underwear down to his ankles. He felt Derek lift him up, so he sat on the edge of the tailgate, then with one hand supporting him from behind, another hand firmly guided him to lay back in the bed of the truck.

Stiles eyes remained closed. He kept the view of the setting sun trapped between iris and eyelid, because there could not have been anything better to behold. He felt his legs lift in the air, held up by Derek's strong hands. Stiles gasped as he felt something warm and wet snake into him, twirling, prodding, and lapping. Derek ate him for what felt like an eternity, and not the bad kind of eternity at that. Eventually Stiles felt his legs come down slowly, and he opened his eyes to see Derek as he took hold of Stiles and began to stroke him gently. Stiles closed his eyes again, sighing in pleasure. It was firm and rhythmic, and Stiles knew he wouldn't last more than a couple of minutes, _maybe less_ , he thought when a sensation hit him from the warmth enveloping his testicles as Derek cupped and massaged them perfectly.

He felt it coming. Like a wave descending from his gut, and then like a surge, a jettison that could not be stopped as it rushed, swirling in his balls in a frenzy before exploding up his shaft. Stiles let out an intense cry as hot, white, cum shot out from him, jumping into the air and landing on his stomach, his chest, and finally ending with a couple small drops leaving speckles on his left cheek. He breathed deeply, intensely, and Derek continued to stroke him more gently and more slowly than before, but still determined to milk every ounce from him.

Stiles' breathing eventually returned to normal and Derek let go. He opened his eyes and sat up on his elbows, smiling.

“Feel good?” asked Derek cockily.

“Wonderful,” replied Stiles.

“You may want to get one of those new shirts you bought,” Derek said, as he leaned forward and scooped the couple drops of seed from Stiles' cheek with a finger, before putting it in his own mouth. Stiles looked down at his shirt and blushed.

The two made their way back up to the ranch, and Stiles took his new clothes (and one piece of laundry) up to the bedroom to put them away. He avoided making eye contact with anyone, somehow feeling like he had a dirty little secret, even though he knew logically they hadn't done anything wrong. Derek enlisted Scott and Isaac's help with the groceries. Danny had gone out to keep guard.

An hour later they were all sitting around the dinner table. A great big pot of green chile was in the center and there were warmers filled with tortillas, cornbread, beans, and squash. Stiles ate contentedly, but was for the most part quiet. The rest of the table chatted lightly about this and that.

“So,” Isaac said, looking over at Stiles, “How do you like Rim Country so far?”

Stiles gave a start, nearly choking on a piece of pork. He coughed, violently and a few seconds later managed to clear his throat. His eyes were watering and everyone was staring at him with concern. He looked around, red-faced and embarrassed.

“It's really nice,” he wheezed.

 


	6. A Party Needs Guests

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As with a couple of other chapters, this is uploaded in beta-form. Revisions will probably be made as I proofread this again, though nothing major will change in terms of the plot. Many thanks to everyone who has commented and followed the story. I didn't expect it to be this long, but it seems to have developed a life of its own. I see it either becoming a series or continuing on for a significant number of pages, with lots, and I mean lots, of action, drama, and and intrigue to come.  
> -Love and Peace to you all: KaiserKittenWalzer.  
> "You can't stop the signal"

After dinner, Stiles and Scott headed down to the fire pit by the creek. Isaac and Derek stayed behind with Maria to help with the dishes and to start preparing more food for their soon-to-arrive guests. Maria had been preparing for quite some time though, and the deep freezer in the laundry room was already mostly full.

Scott and Stiles looked around with a flashlight from the ATVs storage compartment to find leaves, sticks, and branches to put in the fire pit. After about five minutes of looking, they seemed satisfied with their collection. Stiles dumped the leaves into the pit, then laid some sticks on top, then a couple of thicker branch segments. He pulled out a barbecue lighter from the pocket of the hoodie he'd borrowed from Scott. He hadn't thought that it might get cold, and neglected to buy any kind of sweater or jacket on his shopping excursion.

He knelt by the fire pit and lit some of the leaves and sticks, blowing on them to help bring the delicate flames to life. After a few minutes of tending the nascent fire, he felt satisfied it would sustain itself, and he placed a couple more branches on top of the glowing pile. He sat back with satisfaction, and looked over at Scott who was lying on his side, propped up on one elbow. His eyes were fixed on the fire, as if hypnotized. Stiles watched him for a moment, now his own mind lost in thought. Then Scott came to, shaking his head as he realized he'd let himself be distracted, “Sorry,” he said, smiling, “Don't know what came over me.” “It's okay,” Stiles replied. Then there was more silence.

 

“I missed you when we were in the caves, you know,” said Scott suddenly, still looking at the crackling flames.

“I know. You told me every time I came to visit,” Stiles replied.

“Yeah,” Scott started, “But sometimes people say things just to say 'em, you know? I'm just saying it again because I want you to know I meant it. I missed you buddy,” he said, his soft, puppy-like eyes looking up at Stiles.

Stiles was fiddling with a stick, drawing patterns in the dirt.

“Well at least you had Isaac,” he said as he tossed the thing into the fire. Scott averted his eyes towards the ground.

Scott started, “Stiles, look, I know you're not exactly fond of Isaac-” Stiles let out a short laugh that interrupted him. Stiles' eyes were still locked on the ground, not even looking at the pattern he'd drawn, but past it, to whatever he imagined in his head.

Scott paused for a second before deciding to try to get through to Stiles again. “But,” he said cautiously, “We're together. And I like him, and he likes me. You're my best friend Stiles, and I want you both to be friends too.”

Stiles shook his head _no_ as he continued to gaze through the ground.

“I understand though,” Scott conceded, “That not everyone has to like everyone. But what I'm asking, Stiles, is that you give him a chance.”

“He's a prick,” Stiles said forcefully, venom seeping from the words. “He's an arrogant prick.”

This time it was Scott who shook his head, “You don't understand him. He's been through a lot. Yes, I know he can come off a bit cocky, but there's so much more to him than that.”

“If you say so,” Stiles said, unconvinced.

“Alright,” said Scott, “Well, can you at least just be civil with him?”

“I am civil with him,” Stiles replied.

“No you're not,” insisted Scott.

“Okay, then how should I talk to him then?” Stiles asked.

“Just....” Scott paused for a moment, trying to think of how to phrase it quite right. “Talk to him like you would a stranger at a party...like when you're just making small talk.”

Stiles remained silent, then threw another branch into the fire. “Okay,” he muttered, before letting the crackling sound of the fire again replace their words.

“Hey!” Stiles said suddenly, looking up at Scott, “Where are Kira and Malia?” he asked. He'd wondered where they'd been and felt embarrassed he hadn't thought to ask before.

“They're with Mr Argent,” said Scott. “He took them to Spokane with him. They're actually coming tomorrow though. A lot of people are.” 

“What are they doing in Spokane?” Stiles asked, completely put off. 

“Visiting his lawyer friend who I guess he says can help us out,” said Scott, “She's coming too, for all I know.” Scott shrugged, feeling like he'd left Stiles unsatisfied, but he wasn't keeping anything from him. Sometimes he felt as though he were more comfortable than his friend at accepting that he didn't know something. Stiles, though, always seemed to need an explanation. That was okay though, it was part of what made Stiles who he was, and who he was, was his best friend.

The two of them sat there again in another bout of silence, but the sound of the creek babbling in the dark joined by the warmth of the fire felt good to them both.

“I miss my dad,” said Stiles out of nowhere.

“Yeah, I miss my parents too,” said Scott.

“It's been a lot longer since you've seen them than since I've seen my dad,” said Stiles, suddenly feeling selfish at having disregarded that fact.

“That doesn't matter,” Scott reassured him, knowing what Stiles was thinking, “If you miss someone after a month or even after a minute, you still miss them, and that's just how you feel.”

 

Stiles nodded his head, “I left a message, but I couldn't tell him basically anything, just that I was alright and-” Stiles stopped for a second as he choked up. He could feel his eyes welling with tears as he imagined his father sitting alone in the house. He pictured the darkened kitchen with just a single overhanging light illuminating the table where his dad would be hunched over, lost in troubling thoughts, a tumbler and a bottle of whiskey within easy reach.

“Hey,” said Scott concerned, “Don't worry. You did what you could. He knows you're alive and he knows you're with friends. That's something.”

“Yeah,” Stiles whispered.

“You know, at least you have Derek, and Maria, and me here for you,” Scott reassured him.

“Yeah, she's okay,” said Stiles begrudgingly.

“Who Maria?” asked Scott, “Maria's awesome!” he exclaimed suddenly perking up.

“I mean, her cooking is really good,” Stiles admitted.

“She does more than just cook you know,” Scott said, “She's the dueña de casa, the keeper, the person who runs this house. This is her domain, even if Derek's family owns it.”

Stiles nodded absently, agreeing.

“Plus, she's a _bruja_ , a witch,” said Scott.

Stiles head jerked up suddenly. “Whaaat? Are you serious?”

Scott nodded his head. “Yup. There's a reason Derek keeps her around. She protects this place,” he replied.

“I don't know why I was surprised, actually,” said Stiles shaking his head.

“Come on,” let's get back up to the house. It's been a long day,” Scott said as he got up off the ground and brushed the dirt from his clothes. He took a bucket and filled it at the creek. He dumped the water onto the fire, then scooped up some sand and let it flow over the extinguished remains in the pit. Stiles got up and they rode back up to the house.

 

The two walked up the stairs to the second level together. Scott stopped as they reached his room, which was the first on the right. “I'll see you tomorrow,” he said. Stiles made his way to the end of the hall and opened the bedroom door. It was dark. He flipped the light switch on and closed the door behind him, sighing at the thought of a little rest. It felt eerie not to have Derek in the room, but Stiles also felt like it was for the best. He was still feeling depressed about his dad, and he knew it was just as well that Derek were elsewhere. He turned on a bedside lamp and flipped the main lights off. He felt tired, but he also felt on edge with the strangeness of an empty, unfamiliar room. He found a remote control on the nightstand and turned on the TV above the fireplace. _House Hunters_ Stiles said to himself, _International...._ _very nice_. He laid back into the pillows and was asleep before the couple even got to see the second home.

Stiles woke up the following morning feeling refreshed and awake. It was glorious to sleep until he didn't feel like it, compared to most days where the shrill buzz of an alarm would dictate when he shouldn't feel tired anymore. He stretched and breathed in deeply as he lay in a pool of soft sheets. Sunlight was shining through the window, illuminating the room in a soft glow. The TV was still on and Stiles turned it off, confused, until he suddenly remembered he'd fallen asleep to it. Derek was nowhere to be found, though his side of the bed made clear he must have come in and slept next to him during the night. Clearly he'd gone to bed and gotten up while Stiles was still asleep.

Stiles got out of bed, and headed into the bathroom where he showered and found a spare toothbrush, which he ripped out of its packaging and aggressively applied to his his teeth and gums, having neglected them the night before. He dressed in some of his new clothes and went downstairs. 

Maria was in the kitchen. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail and it bounced up and down as she bobbed to whatever music was blasting into her ears via headphones which snaked their way to an iPhone resting in her shirt pocket. _Sheeeee waaas...._ _AAAN_ _A_ _MERIIIIICAN GIIIIRL_ , she crooned as Stiles approached the kitchen island counter. “Maria,” he said shyly. Maria didn't notice him. She was busy making a salad, a huge salad, in a big bucket that Stiles could only guess was for the gathering. “Oh!” said Maria suddenly seeing him. “Buenos, mijo!” she said, as she took out her ear buds.

“Good morning,” said Stiles with a smile. “Could you tell me where I can find some cereal or something for breakfast?

“No cereal,” said Maria matter-of-factly. “I make breakfast,” she said.

Stiles sighed internally, not daring to show any sign of being perturbed or impatient. He really just wanted cereal, not some elaborate _chilaquiles_ or _huevos rancheros_ dish.

“What you make?” asked Stiles. Maria didn't seem to notice or care about his little _tour de grammaire_.

“I make white people food,” replied Maria simply as she chopped up some bacon to put into the salad mixture.

“I'm pretty sure not just white people eat salad,” said Stiles. 

Maria rolled her eyes, she turned around and waddled over to the counter at the other side of the kitchen and took a plate onto which she placed two biscuits which she cut in half, and over which she ladled a thick white sauce dotted with chunks of browned ground beef. “Biscuits and gravy. White people food,” she said as she plopped the plate in front of Stiles along with a knife and fork and a bottle of hot sauce. Stiles looked at the heaping mass of fluffy pastry and savory sauce. He reached out for the bottle of hot sauce, but looked up when his hand touched air where a bottle should have been. Maria stood there, lips pouting. “No,” she said, “You get smart with me too early. No sauce for you. Your lips already too spicy,” she said, wagging her finger. 

“But Maria!” cried Stiles plaintively. “Coffee is in the pot, creamer in fridge!” she said as she went to put the bottle of hot sauce in a cupboard. 

Stiles had to admit, the biscuits and gravy were excellent, with or without hot sauce, and it took him less than five minutes to finish them before he dropped his utensils and sat back breathing out deeply in satisfaction.

“Have you seen Derek?” asked Stiles.

“He's in the _biblioteca_ ,” said Maria bustling about the kitchen, as was her wont.

“Library?” asked Stiles confused.

“Yes, the library. Third floor of the house.”

“How do I get there?” asked Stiles.

“You know your room?” Maria asked, “It's the door right next to it.”

“Thank you Maria!” said Stiles, as he went off to go find Derek.

“You're welcome mijo!” she yelled as she grabbed the plate he'd just left there. She put it in the sink. _He's next to do dishes,_ she thought as she put her ear buds back in.

Stiles walked down the hall of the second floor towards his bedroom and stopped in front of a the door just before it. This door looked like all the others except that it was narrower, and Stiles was not surprised he hadn't noticed it before, as he would have assumed it to be a linen closet or something of that sort. He opened the door and there was a set of steps which went up, then ended in a small landing which allowed him to turn to his left to continue up another small flight of stairs to yet another door. He knocked on it. 

“Come in,” Stiles heard from a voice on the other side. Stiles opened the door and saw Derek sitting at a large wood desk just to his left, his back was shrouded in light from a window which was angled as it was part of the roof, which, being at the top of the house made it also the ceiling for the library.

“Good morning Stiles,” said Derek smiling, “Did you have a good night's rest?”

“I did,” Stiles replied, looking around.

The walls were lined with bookcases, laden with tomes of many sizes. The open floor in front of the desk was covered in a beautiful, but worn, red antique rug. To the right of Stiles, the walls started to come in as if intending to meet each other and close off the room, but they only started a few feet before stopping, and each nub of a thus, non-existent wall faced the back of a bookcase. The space between them opened up into a second room of the library that felt distinct but which flowed from the first. In it were more of the stately bookshelves, a window that looked out over the front of the house which imported the cheerful sunlight. In addition, there was a wooden armoire, and, Stiles thought it amusing, in the middle of the room was a ping-pong table. 

“You, uhhh.... you like table tennis?” asked Stiles.

“Yes. I do,” replied Derek, “I play it with friends when when we discuss things.”

Stiles was confused, “Just for kicks?”

“No,” replied Derek, “I find that the concentration needed for playing the game distracts the mind from putting up defenses which conceal what it's actually thinking.”

“Oh,” said Stiles, impressed, “That's an interesting strategy.”

“It has its uses,” said Derek, “Sometimes it helps to distract me so my mind has no choice but to be vulnerable and speak what it really feels. The same goes for whoever else is playing. That doesn't mean whatever comes out is the truth though, but it can be... illuminating.” Derek returned to writing the letter he'd begun shortly before Stiles had come up.

“So, what've you been up to,” asked Stiles.

“Just doing some research, administrative work, nothing particularly interesting,” Derek assured him.

A voice came over a radio Stiles hadn't noticed before. “Isaac to Derek,” it squawked. “Go for Derek,” Derek said into the walkie-talkie.

“Jamie and his people are here.”

“10-4, Send them through,” said Derek, placing the radio back on the big desk.

“The packs are starting to arrive now. They'll be coming in throughout the day,” Derek explained.

Stiles nodded. “Where is Jamie's pack from?” he asked.

“Alpine, California. It's just east of San Diego,” Derek replied as he looked down at a list and checked off one of the lines.

“It's going to be a very busy day for me... maybe for you too,” Derek continued, “Did Danny fill you in on what he's found so far?”

“Yes,” Stiles said, “In fact, I've still got a stack of documents he gave me to look over.”

“Look those over, because that's what we've sent to everyone who's coming. I want to make sure you're up-to-speed with everyone else. I need you on point at this meeting,” said Derek. 

Stiles headed back downstairs to the bedroom where he curled back up in bed. He pulled the manila folder over from the night stand so he could begin dissecting all the information Danny had worked to procure for the groups. The clock ticked on, occasionally interrupted by the sound of the doorbell, as, Stiles assumed, more and more guests were arriving. He, however, was immersed in the materials splayed around him. 

_Holy crap_ thought Stiles, as he divided documents into various categories. He was most impressed at the number of contracts that PsyNex had held with the military. Some of the technology he'd actually heard of, others hadn't actually been seen used in conventional warfare or at least their use hadn't been publicized. There were things like quantum stealth fabric, and nano-tech cloth for shirts and pants: cloth whose weave density could open and close based on a person's body heat to help make the wearer more comfortable. _Aha!_ Stiles thought, while rifling through a new set of documents. _I wonder if this has anything to do with our friend Jeffrey the lab-test wonder boy_. The documents detailed an experimental drug which could be carried in pill form and used by service personnel who needed to stay awake for extended periods of time in hostile situations.

Stiles got up and looked out the bedroom window that faced South over the deck and lawn. There were tents now on the grass, just a few, but already a few more being erected as he watched. It was a big house, but not big enough for this kind of gathering, he supposed. He heard yet another doorbell, and he rolled his eyes, heading back over to the bed to continue his research. As he sat down though, he could have sworn he'd heard a voice calling him. He thought it might be a trick of the imagination, but he got up anyway, and just as he was about to open the bedroom door to look down the hallway, he heard a knock. He opened the door to see Scott, who was taken aback at how quickly Stiles had answered.

“Hey Stiles,” Scott said, seeming unusually perky. “Come on down when you're ready. I just wanted to let you know Deaton is almost here.”

“Nice!” Stiles exclaimed, happy that Deaton was coming. He'd always liked the veterinarian, though he had also always been frustrated by the mystery surrounding him. He seemed unwilling to share much about himself, and Stiles wondered why that was. On the other hand, Stiles recognized him as a good and thoughtful man, a caring man, with a great deal of expertise in very useful areas, and, if he wanted to be mysterious, Stiles supposed that Deaton's past was his own to keep.

Stiles made his way downstairs with Scott, and the two sat on the last of the steps before the stairwell ended in the foyer.

So how was your morning?” asked Scott.

“It was productive,” replied Stiles.

“What did you do?” Stiles asked.

“I've been in the barn most of the morning. I've just been organizing things, checking on supplies, helping out with setting up tents and what-not. Derek said that usually we'd have help from the ranch hands who live in the apartments above the barn, but they're still out with the cattle right now.”

They both looked up as a silhouette formed behind the smoked glass of the front door. The doorbell rang and Scott immediately jumped up and went to open the door. Stiles watched as Scott instantaneously lunged forward and grabbed Deaton in a huge hug, sparing no time for words of greeting. “It's good to see you!” gasped Deaton, a little taken by the warm welcome. Scott released him and backed up so that Deaton could make his way into the foyer, where he saw Stiles who was just getting up from the staircase steps to give him a hug, albeit one less enthusiastic than Scott's. 

Derek was coming down the stairs to say hello just in time to witness Maria barreling through the foyer. “DEAAATOOOOOON!” she yelled, gesticulating wildly as she ran. Deaton was secretly terrified, as if one were suddenly in the path of a freight train, but Maria slowed down just in time as she wrapped him up. “Hello,” she said, embracing him and moving him back and forth as if he were a doll.

“Hello Maria,” Deaton chuckled softly.

“Come. I show you your room,” she said as she grabbed his free hand.

As Maria and Deaton made their way up the stairs, they met Derek who was about to come down from the second story, and they greeted one another. Derek continued down into the foyer and told Scott and Stiles who were still standing there that Chris Argent and company had just passed through the front gate and should also be there momentarily. The three went outside to wait for them, and no sooner had they opened the door that a black SUV rolled up to the house. Stiles shivered, thinking of the black Suburbans the PsyNex men drove. He knew though that the black Denali approaching the house belonged to one of the good guys.

Chris Argent stepped down from the vehicle as the two rear passenger doors opened and Kira and Malia emerged from the SUV as well. Chris took off his sunglasses as he approached Derek to shake hands, and Malia and Kira both went immediately to greet Scott and Stiles with friendly hugs.

“How have you been?” asked Scott.

“Good. We've been good,” Kira assured him, “It's just been a lot of driving.”

Stiles laughed, “Yeah, no kidding, I can't believe you went all the way to Spokane to visit a lawyer. Speaking of which, where-” Stiles cut himself off as the front passenger side door popped open.

Everyone watched as a woman in a black pin-stripe pantsuit spurred the dust with her pumps as she descended from the vehicle. Her hair was pulled back tightly into a bun. Her aviator sunglasses concealed an expressionless face as she tapped away at her phone, too busy to notice that everyone had stopped talking to observe her. She walked over with the determination and distracted confidence of an executive with no time to lose. She halted next to Chris, who decided it would be his job to introduce her, “Everyone, this is Priscilla. She's the lawyer-friend we went to go see.”

Stiles heard what Chris was saying, but was panicking about the fact she was using a phone. His heart was pumping terribly. He was terrified by the thought that it would reveal their location. He quickly worked up the courage to say something, deciding being rude or embarrassing himself was better than all of them being found by a bunch of crazy private-sector psychopaths.

“Ummm, Miss,” he started hesitantly, “I'm not sure it's a good idea to have your phone on here, it might give away our location.”

“Don't worry,” she said nonchalantly, “It's an encrypted Blackberry, modified by a security company called Phantom Secure based out of Canada. It's completely untraceable and uncrackable. Police hate them. Politicians love them. So do I. I do all my business on one.”

“Oh,” said Stiles, one hand rubbing the back of his neck, “That's kinda cool, actually.”

“My name is Priscilla Pietrowska. It is a pleasure to make all of your acquaintances. Chris has told me so much about you,” she said very diplomatically.

“Priscilla and I go way back. She's the best.” said Chris.

“At what, exactly, if you don't mind me asking?” Scott asked, perplexed but trying not to be rude, “I heard you were some kind of lawyer.” 

“Estate planning,” she said coolly, as she swiftly pulled several business cards out of her suit's interior pocket, handing one to Derek, then to Scott, then to Stiles.

Stiles mouth fell open as he looked around in disbelief. “Estate planning? _As in wills_?” he asked.

“Affirmative,” she responded flatly.

Stiles looked over angrily at Mr Argent, “You know, Chris, if you wanted to tell us we were in trouble, you could have picked a subtler way than bringing your friend around to draw up our last wills-and-testaments, you dark fuck.”

Argent looked at Stiles, his eyes widening as if to say, “Excuse me?”

Stiles gulped a little bit, shrinking a little, before meekly adding, “I mean....You... Dark...Sir?”

Argent kept his eye contact with Stiles a second longer, just to make a point, before breaking off to address everyone again. “Priscilla also runs a, how should I say, clandestine import/export company. We've done business together for years.”

Priscilla, face still expressionless behind her huge, reflective aviators, pulled several more business cards out of the pocket from the other side of her jacket, quickly distributing them to each of the three men.

“All firearms: semi-auto, full-auto, American, European, Asian,” she said, before continuing her litany of weapons, “RPGs, anti-personnel mines, surface-to-air missiles, drones, anti-tank weapons, telecommunication devices, and so on.”

Stiles looked down at the card which read simply:

**Spierdalaj Enterprises**

Import Export Division

 

Sabroena TeDie

_Owner_

 

Stiles' thoughts were interrupted as Chris broke the silence, “Priscilla is also an excellent bomb maker.”

“Awww Chris, that's so sweet, but true of you to say,” Priscilla said with a wry smile. “If you want, I can teach some of you how to make explosives,” she said to the group. She then pointed at Stiles, “You! I will teach you. You look like good bomb maker.”

“Ummmm, first of all I'm not really sure what that's supposed to mean,” said Stiles, somewhat offended. “Secondly, that sounds super dangerous and- Hey! Actually you know who would be really good at bomb making? There's a guy named Isaac who-”

“Shut up Stiles!” Scott yelled.

Priscilla let loose a huge laugh, joined by Stiles' guilty giggling. Scott did not look amused.

“I like you,” Priscilla said to Stiles in an approving tone.

“Let's get you all inside,” said Derek. “We saved the last of the rooms for you, but Malia and Kira,” he looked at them apologetically, “I had to put you two together in one room.”

“It's no problem,” said Kira, as Malia nodded in agreement.

The whole group headed inside and Derek took the guests upstairs to show them to their rooms. Scott and Stiles stayed downstairs and went into the kitchen. Maria was, of course there, working on who-knows-what.

“Hello Maria!” Stiles said amiably.

“Hello _mijo_! You want to help me chop some vegetables?” she asked.

“Sure,” Stiles said.

Scott put his hand on Stiles' shoulder, “I've actually got to go relieve Isaac down at the gate, but I'll send him back up here to help.”

Stiles helped Maria with the enormous amount of food that still needed preparing, and eventually they were joined by Malia and Kira, and then Deaton, and finally Isaac, who all lent a hand doing this and that, as Maria directed them to chop and wash, assemble chafing dishes, find plates and utensils, put up tables on the balcony, and virtually every other task imaginable, all in preparation to feed the dozens of guests who were trickling in a few at a time.

Group after group was arriving, though Stiles barely had time to glance up and acknowledge them as they made their way through the kitchen to the door that led to the deck and then down the stairs to the lawn below. There was a great variety of people, and Stiles noted that it seemed as if each pack, at least he assumed they were arriving in packs, had a certain feel to them.

Stiles had seen one group come in. He remembered them specifically because their arrival was announced by the deafening sound of their motorcycles approaching the house. They were, almost all of them, dressed in denim and leather, most of the men with beards of various lengths. He'd seen another still, of werewolves who looked like cholos, arriving in low-riders with that candy apple paint. “ _Oooorale_ ,” said Maria, as they passed by the kitchen, though Stiles saw her turn to Deaton and whisper as the group made their way outside, “I hate those _putos._ No respect for tradition.”

Stiles was getting tired and he asked Maria if he could take a break. Maria was quick to respond, “Yes, mijo, you've done enough. Go spend time with Danny in the computer dungeon, and take him this _plato_ , _por favor_!” Stiles took the plate and went down into the basement to take Danny his food.

Danny was sitting at one of the computers, the one he habitually used, which was closest to the corner. He was wearing headphones and Stiles could hear the faint sound of the music pulsing from them, probably Electronic music from the sound of it.

“Hey, I brought you some food,” said Stiles as he put the plate onto the counter next to Danny's keyboard.

Danny jumped, as if he had been shocked by electricity. He hadn't heard Stiles come from behind him because of the music blaring through the headphones.

“Jesus Christ!” he exclaimed, before looking up at Stiles, who now also looked terrified. Danny slumped back down into his computer chair, pulling off his headphones, breathing heavily but relieved at seeing a familiar face.

“I'm sorry,” Stiles said feeling incredibly awkward, as he wasn't sure how he was supposed to approach someone who was wearing headphones from behind without startling them. It was Danny's choice to cut off an important sensory input from the actual world around him, after all.

“It's okay,” said Danny, “What's up?”

“I just got tired of working in the kitchen. I read through all the documents you gave me, then I did some food prep for a while and I asked to take a break and Maria said to come on down and keep you company, bring you some food, you know, that sort of thing.”

Danny nodded, “Oh thanks, this looks really good.

“So ummm... do you want to play some video games?” Stiles asked awkwardly as he nodded with his head over to the television in the opposite corner. He supposed Danny hadn't taken much of a break himself as he glanced up at the computer screen which was covered in computer code.

“Sure, go get it set up and I'll be over as soon as I finish this,” said Danny. “Wait,” he paused all of the sudden as Stiles was just turning around, “What game?”

“Soulcalibur?” asked Stiles.

“Only if I get to be Ivy,” said Danny.

“Fine,” Stiles replied mock-hurt, “I was going to be Xianghua anyway.”

“Xianghua isn't in Soulcalibur V,” said Danny snappily.

“Then I guess we'll need to play Soulcalibur IV,” replied Stiles walking towards the television.

“Fine,” said Danny, “It's on the bottom shelf.”

The two battled for hours until it was nearly 11:00 PM The ambient noise had grown steadily, as more and more people arrived and Stiles and Danny could hear the guests in the adjoining part of the basement playing pool, drinking, and conversing loudly.

“Oh shit!” Stiles said, finally seeing the clock and the hour. “I'd better see where Derek is. The meeting is supposed to be at midnight.”


	7. A Meeting of the Packs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual: unbeta'd. Pray your patience and tolerance for any mistakes and their corrections.  
> Also: There is mention of collecting a particular plant for potential consumption in this chapter. I am in no way recommending the consumption of this plant. I have not tried it, nor do I plan to. I wouldn't think it wise for anyone to try it. It does not seem like a pleasant experience. -Okay- bases covered.

Stiles made his way up to the kitchen where Maria was talking to Deaton as she was washing her hands. “Oh hello, mijo,” she said as she noticed Stiles come in, “How was the dungeon?”

“The dungeon was good,” Stiles replied.

“I think you may want to go get Derek, the meeting is taking place in a little less than an hour,” Deaton advised.

“Yeah, that's actually why I came up here. Do you know where he is?” Stiles asked.

“I believe he's in the library."

“Okay, great. Are you two excited for the meeting?” asked Stiles.

“We..." Deaton paused, "Won't be going.”

“Why not? Don't you want to know what's going on?” Stiles asked, all of the sudden confused.

“Well, that would be assuming the people down there know what's going on. If new information comes to light, I'm sure we'll hear about it soon enough. It's that-”

“We are not werewolves,” clarified Maria, “This is not our meeting. Our opinions would not be welcome or respected.” She threw her apron onto the counter and went to sit at the breakfast table.

“Maria and I are actually heading up into the woods to give people some space and to collect moon flowers,” explained Deaton. “You're welcome to join is if you'd prefer, but go and talk to Derek first and ask him what he thinks,” he said with a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

Stiles headed up the stairs and knocked on the library door. An annoyed-sounding, “Yes?” met his request to enter. Stiles cracked the door open slowly, peeking his head in. Derek was hunched over the desk writing something. He looked up, and seeing Stiles he instantly relaxed. “I'm sorry,” he said with a sigh that seemed to carry some of the stress out of him, “Come in Stiles.”

“It's almost time for the meeting,” Stiles said.

“I know,” said Derek, distractedly. He was somewhere else.

“Deaton and Maria aren't going,” added Stiles who was looking down at his feet. “They said they're going to collect moon flowers or something like that.”

“Yes, they grow here. They bloom at night, some of them very rarely,” Derek responded, “I suppose they told you why they chose to go now?”

“You mean besides it being night?” asked Stiles, “Yeah, they mentioned they might not be welcome at the meeting.”

“Mmmm...” Derek murmured.

“They didn't seem upset or anything by it," Stiles quickly added, "I think they just want to be respectful.” Stiles was doing his damndest to alleviate some of the tension.

“I don't find attitudes like the kind they expect from our guests to be worth respecting,” said Derek, “They're both important people in this and they deserve a say. They've been our allies and helped us more times than I can count, and for longer than I can remember.”

Stiles was silent. He didn't know what to say. It was as if he'd just be interjecting into a conversation which had already happened and was already done.

“And you?” Derek asked, “Are you coming?”

“Well,” Stiles reached his left hand up to cup the back of his head, looking off into space with an exasperated gasp, “I mean, Maria and Deaton invited me to go with them. Do you think that would be a better idea?” He'd thrown the ball back into Derek's court without having made a move himself.

“You're welcome to come and if anyone has a problem with it, they can answer to me,” Derek said determinedly.

Stiles was conflicted. He wanted to know what was going on- to be a part of it- but he also knew that he might make things unnecessarily difficult, and that somehow he might undermine Derek's privilege as host. But he also thought of the disappointment of feeling left out of the whole thing to begin with. He felt some resentment about learning of the meeting from Danny, when clearly the whole thing wasn't planned over night. He'd felt left out when he'd had to visit his friends and Derek in the cave. _It was my fault for choosing not to go with them_ , he thought, trying to fight himself, but the alienation of it all felt just as poignant. Deep down, he knew he was welcome, that he was included, that his friends wanted him there. That Derek wanted him there. But Stiles didn't want to intrude this time. It was just bad timing.

“I think,” Stiles began hesitantly, “I know I'm welcome to come, I really do. But, I think it might make things run more smoothly if I weren't there, being a distraction.”

“So you'll go with Deaton and Maria then?” asked Derek.

“Yes, I think it might be interesting,” said Stiles perking up his tone a bit, “Plus, you can fill me in on everything that happens. I'd rather hear it all from you than from a bunch of,” he lowered his voice and began stomping in place and swinging his arms, “Surly, lumberjack werewolf men.”

Derek got out of his chair and went over to Stiles. He put his arms around his shoulders and leaned in to kiss him on the forehead, before pulling him in to him to wrap him up tight. “I love you,” he said. “Take one of my coats from the closet by the front door. It's getting chilly.”

Stiles went downstairs and found the coat closet. He pulled out a leather jacket that was coarse and had a banded collar. He put it on. It was too big everywhere, but it didn't matter. He wasn't in a fashion show. He headed into the kitchen where Maria was tightening a belt around her waist. From it hung sacks suspended by twine. They looked to be burlap, or some similar material. She buckled the belt and threw a serape over her head, letting it fall onto her shoulders and it was as if it floated effortlessly down into place. She left the kitchen for a moment leaving Deaton alone with Stiles. Stile's leaned back against the kitchen counter, his hands grasping the edge of the granite, and he watched Deaton put on a poncho of his own. Deaton's, though, was gray and white, more reserved than the bright colors of Maria's serape. It covered a belt similar to Maria's.

“What- does everyone get a poncho but me?” asked Stiles jokingly.

To say Deaton was serious would not be quite right, though he responded in his usual, cool and subdued fashion as he noticed Stiles was wearing a jacket, “I take it you're coming with us?”

“I figured it could be fun,” Stiles said.

Deaton didn't respond, but he went to the table in the breakfast nook where his veterinarian bag lay. Stiles watched as he opened it and removed a small ceramic jar with a cork, which Deaton opened, pouring a small amount of gold-colored powder into one of his hands. He went back over to Stiles who had pushed himself off from the counter's edge to see what Deaton was up to. Deaton went around Stiles, and turned facing his back. He poured half of the fine, gold powder from one hand into the other, and he placed them both onto Stiles' shoulders, close to the base of his neck. He unballed his fists, letting the powder drop down onto the jacket just outside the collar, and he moved his hands in a slow sweeping motion- outwards toward his arms, spreading the dust down the sleeves. He did it three times, and then repeated, this time his arms coming around Stiles' to sweep from his shoulders down his chest, and then down his back. Deaton stepped back finally and Stiles could see Maria's shadow in the hallway, a sharp tapping noise portending her return.

Stiles looked down at his jacket, well, not _his_ jacket, but the jacket he'd borrowed from Derek. The gold powder had disappeared, as if instead of simply dusting the jacket it had somehow been absorbed into it. He could, however, make out fine reflective specks, indicating the dust was now embedded into the leather. Maria's corpulent presence reappeared in the kitchen, and Stiles could see she'd gone to fetch a large walking stick, or perhaps, staff would be the better word, as it was, by Stiles' estimation, at least six-feet high. It was made of light-colored wood and at the end the wood split open into four parts, branching out and up, as if it were a claw reaching out to the sky.

“Alright, let's go” Maria said abruptly. She made her way over to the kitchen table and grabbed a small bag with a shoulder strap. She handed it to Stiles as he and Deaton came over to join her.

“Here, take this,” she said to Stiles. “It's important. Keep it safe,” she explained, as she waddled to the door leading to the balcony. Stiles and Deaton began following her, but Stiles took a second to lift the flap, just to see what was inside.

“Maria, there's just a big bag of trail mix in here!” Stiles said.

“Yeah, I know. I added the M&Ms myself,” she said as she pushed open the door. The three of them stepped out into the crisp night air to a scene of chaotic activity. By now, dozens of tents were spread across the lawn and an enormous tent bordered the south of the makeshift encampment. Several camp fires burned, and Stiles could see many, many people milling about. From the balcony, the sounds of laughter and voices could be heard, all announcing a grand reunion of longtime friends, and perhaps, Stiles imagined, of some who'd not seen each other in a very long time for very good reasons. Whatever the politics to play out might be, it was none of their concern at this moment.

The three headed down the steps of the balcony and Maria got onto the ATV. It sank beneath her as if it were cowering into its axle. Deaton and Stiles walked along side as she guided it at a slow pace to the left of all the hubbub in the middle of the lawn and towards the edge of the forest line, before turning, so that they were heading in the direction of the creek.

The three reached the creek after about ten minutes, and Maria stopped the ATV just short of the water's edge, beckoning Stiles to get on the back. He climbed on, cringing as he felt the coils of the suspension shudder under the unwelcome added weight. He felt entirely uncomfortable as there was barely enough room for him to even fit. Maria crossed the creek and stopped the ATV. Stiles got off and so did she. “Go get Deaton. He's bigger than you, wouldn't fit with me driving.”

Stiles got on the vehicle and turned it around, going through the creek before arriving on the other side to collect Deaton, who lithely hopped on the back. They made their way across the creek and Stiles stopped, giving Deaton a chance to get off before he did as well.

“Go ahead and shut it off,” said Maria, “I only brought it so our feet wouldn't get wet from the water. We walk from here. Less noise.”

“Are you afraid of scaring off the moon flowers?” Stiles asked sarcastically.

“ _Tonto_ ,” Maria said, “It's for us... because of the noise of the engine and the light from the headlights. You must rely on your senses more. Be aware of every threat,” she explained, “Or opportunity.”

They trod up the path to the cattle gate and Maria opened it, stepping through, followed by the others. Then, they headed a little farther north, the way well-worn by herded cattle, before Maria led them down a tiny path off to the left. It was barely broken in, and descended quickly into an arroyo and re- ascended on the other side, climbing again  into  the foothills of the mountains.

__

Back at the ranch, Scott had come out of the house with Isaac, and the two held hands as they looked out at the humming  morass  of people from the balcony. They went down the stairs, eager to have a look around as things were getting underway. As they were about to venture further into the  crowd of werewolves, Scott spotted Priscilla, who was sitting all alone in front of the fire burning in the chimenea.  She looked so alone, though Scott wondered how lonely she might truly be.  _Maybe it's just her default face?_ She sat there with a colorful drink in her hand, watching the fire. Scott and Isaac went over to say hello, though Isaac was a bit hesitant, having not had the pleasure of meeting her yet.

“That's a fancy looking drink you have there,” said Scott, trying to sound as friendly as possible.

“Sex on the beach," she replied, "Maria made it for me,”

“Oh,” said Scott, a little shocked, “That's quite a name for a drink.”

"Maria claims she invented it," Priscilla added, to which Isaac gave a short laugh, amused at the thought.

“I like to have one whenever I start thinking of my husband,” she explained.

“Where is he?” inquired Scott.

“Prison-” she said.

“Oh,” Scott said, trying to sound surprised.

“Explosives sting by ATF,” Priscilla explained, deciding to forgo the inevitable follow-up from Scott.

“Actually, I should say, ex-husband.” Priscilla sighed, “I don't do conjugals.”

Scott and Isaac gave each other a quick glance, as if neither of them were sure what to say. Neither of them were.

“So, I take it you're Chris Argent's friend, the one who makes bombs?” asked Isaac, trying to change the topic.

“I also make boutique scented candles,” she said,  reaching into her pocket. Scott tried to put up a hand to say, “that's alright,”  but he was too late as  she succeeded in fishing one out.

“You must be Isaac,” she said, “The one Derek's friend Stiles talked about.”

Isaac was a little taken aback, “Stiles talked about me?” Scott rolled his eyes. Neither of the other two noticed, though.

“Come see me after your meeting,” Priscilla said to Isaac.

Scott and Isaac took their leave and headed towards the big tent. “She seems nice,” Isaac observed.

“No, she's creepy,” said Scott, before muttering under his breath, “She probably makes her candles out of human fat.”

Inside the big tent Isaac and Scott found dozens of werewolves already assembled. In the center was a large, circular, open area. People were gathered around it, leaving four corridors open to act as walkways, radiating out towards the exterior of the tent. They found Malia sitting on an aisle and joined her.

“Where's Kira?” asked Scott.

“She's with Chris. I guess Derek's got some pretty cool books on Japanese mythology in his library, so they decided to go and check them out during the meeting,” Malia responded.

“Speak of the devil,” she said, looking up.

They turned to see Derek walking down one of the aisles, confident, eyes straightforward. He strode into the center circle.

“Welcome,” he said, raising his arms in a dramatic greeting and turning to see everyone around the room. “We're honored by your presence.”

He gave a slight pause for dramatic effect, before continuing in a more serious tone, “We know why we've gathered here tonight: A new threat has emerged, and we are ill-prepared to confront it. The questions we face now are critical, and they do not have satisfactory answers. We will share the evidence we've found, and invite testimony by anyone with information. What little we know will be of more use if all of us know it. We must know how you have tried to deal with this, what has worked, what has not. If any of you wish to speak, please-”

Derek stopped short as he saw Peter stride into the tent. His usual confident swagger was of course present. Following him was a number of werewolves, who began taking seats towards the back- the only place where there were still free chairs.

“Well met, Uncle,” said Derek.

“Well met, Nephew.”

Derek returned his focus to addressing the gathering, “As, I was about to say, if any of you wish to speak, please come forward, and grab the hammer at the end of the aisle closest to you,” He gestured to a metal war hammer. Its sides were decorated in runes and knots and its head became a pick as it proceeded past the other side of the handle. It was all one piece of metal, the handle wrapped in leather. One lay in each of the four aisles. No sooner had he made mention of the hammers, that Peter strolled towards the circle and leaned down to pick the nearest one up. He stood there with his feet spread shoulder-width, and waited with arms crossed, the war hammer extending up, past his shoulder.

“I think I may have some answers for you,” said Peter. Derek nodded his head, and switched places with Peter who walked into the circle, hammer now swinging casually at his side.

“Friends,” he said, addressing the assembled werewolves. “Apologies for my lateness. It was a long journey, though many of you have had long journeys yourselves. I expect, though, that the information I wish to share with you will excuse my bad manners, and also serve to benefit us all.” Peter looked to the back of the tent where the werewolves he'd arrived with were sitting. He made a beckoning motion with one of his fingers. One of the group, a large man with a big, red, curly beard, jumped up and went outside, returning a few seconds later. Now he was accompanied by another werewolf who had remained outside the tent. He was of similar stature but with black hair and olive-colored skin. The two between them carried a man under the armpits. He had a sack over his head and his hands were cuffed behind his back. There were a few whispers in the crowd as the werewolves led the man towards the circle. Peter grabbed a chair from the aisle and put it near himself. His companions deposited the man on the seat, the one with the beard ripping the sack unceremoniously off the captive's head before he and his companion returned to the back of the tent.

The bound man looked around, though his squinting eyes made it clear he could barely see a thing in the brightly lit tent. It was anyone's guess as to how long he'd remained shrouded in the dark by his hood. Scott couldn't help but think that the man seemed somewhere caught between resignation and the jumpiness of an abused animal. He wondered how long this man had been with Peter and his 'friends.' He wondered how long it would take them to do that to someone. He felt sorry for him.

“Friends!” Peter exclaimed, circling the chair. "I present to you answers! _N_ _ay_ , better yet, a confession. Too long we've wondered who the beast is, lurking in the shadows. From the horse's mouth to your ears, we have the truth in front of us." He leaned over and grabbed the man by the hair, lifting his head up.

“Look at me,” he growled,  glaring at the anxious man who was desperately trying to keep his eyes closed now.  The man glanced unwillingly up at Peter, fearfully making eye contact. Peter's expression remained unchanged.

“Tell them who you are. Tell them what you do. Tell them why you're doing it,” Peter ordered, gritting his teeth. His face was mere inches from the man's.

The tent was silent.

The man looked down and coughed, clearing his throat. He'd instinctively tried to raise an arm to cover his mouth, but was quickly reminded he was bound. He looked around the room. There were so many people, he didn't know who exactly to address. He chose, though it felt awkward, to address Peter, who already knew all the answers he'd give. It would be the easiest way to do it. He'd done it before... Yes, he remembered before- the unpleasant and unwelcome prods from the werewolf. This would be easiest: _just pretend it's only the two of us_. The only difference between this confession and the last would be the volume of his voice. He'd confess it publicly, for all the world to hear, but he'd keep his eyes fixed on one man, as if it were a conversation in which he were speaking far too loudly.

Still, he was terrified; sweat dripped down his face as he stuttered. “My, my name is Bruce... Bruce Jensen.”

“And who do you work for Bruce?” asked Peter with an impatient and condescending tone.

“I work for PsyNex, at their facility in Seattle.”

“And what do you do there?” asked Peter, continuing his inquiry, his hands clasped behind his back like some sort of would-be detective.

“I'm a research scientist,” said the man.

“What are you researching?”

“I research electro-bionic neural interfaces.”

“And what does that mean in _human?_ ” pressed Peter.

“It means I help design electronic components which interact with the brain,” he explained.

Peter was pacing in circles around the man, who now just kept his eyes dead ahead, staring at some vacant spot, anything that wasn't a werewolf. “What sort of project are you doing this kind of research for?” asked Peter.

“It's called Project 'Day Star.'" explained the nervous scientist, "It's an experimental project to allow a person, we call them handlers, to have control over a werewolf by interfacing a piece of hardware we've nicknamed 'the crab' with the back of the werewolf's neck, allowing it access to the neural pathways of the spinal cord, and thus communication with the brain.”

“And why would you be interested in doing something like that?” asked Peter.

“Because the military is throwing a lot of money at it,” said the scientist flatly.

“What does the military want with werewolves?” asked Peter.

“Guess,” said the man cheekily, forgetting for a moment his predicament.

Peter stopped suddenly in front of the man, staring daggers at him as he leaned in slowly to within inches of his face, “Why don't you just be good and tell us?” he said. The man cleared his throat as Peter moved away, resuming his pacing around the man.

“The intent of the program is to allow military personnel to control groups of werewolves which would act as support to special operations missions. The device, _the crab_ , allows the handler to actively cause a werewolf to shift on command. The handler is also equipped with a special microphone, which transmits directly to the neural interface, allowing him to give orders to the crab, which in turns compels the subject to act on those commands by feeding them into the brain.”

“And how far along is this program?” Peter asked.

“It's recently progressed into a mid-level development stage. We've had some... setbacks, but,” he said, suddenly perking up, ”We've also made some fantastic progress-” the man caught himself as he noticed he was slipping back into his genuine enthusiasm as a researcher, an enthusiasm he guessed might go unappreciated among current company.

Peter paused for a moment, before resuming his circling. “What sort of setbacks?” he inquired.

“At first, the device was operating using signals which were too strong,” the man replied.

“Too strong for what?”

“For the brain,” he said.

“Resulting in?” Peter pressed.

The man hesitated, “In a number of cases it resulted in internal hemorrhaging.”

“Hmmmm....” Peter said in a mockingly pensive tone. There were whispers from the crowd around them.

“But,” said the scientist, trying to sound more positive, “That problem has been fixed. We adjusted the output strength and introduced very small doses of barbiturates which act to increase mental susceptibility and reduce over-stimulation created by active mental resistance.”

“Oh, so you drug them now too?” Peter asked sarcastically.

“It keeps them from dying,” replied the man.

“You might see why we feel little sympathy for that explanation,” Peter said. The man remained silent to the remark.

“So, what else did you mention to me earlier that might interest the fine folks here?” Peter continued.

“Well, for one thing,” began the scientist, “We've found that the device does not work on alphas. Only betas and omegas appear to be susceptible to it. Alphas demonstrate a far higher resistance to neurological manipulation which makes the device impractical.”

“Oh, I see,” said Peter, “Well, Bruce, thank you so much. You've been of great help.” Peter nodded and the two men who brought the scientist in came back and picked him up from the chair, carrying him back outside.

Scott wondered what they were going to do with him now, but his imagination was interrupted by Peter who wasted no time in continuing his address to the assembly.

“So, as you all can see, we're dealing not just with a psychotic bio-tech company, but also with elements of the United States military. Now the question is,” he paused for dramatic effect, “What do we do about it?” Peter abruptly left off on those words, walking to the edge of the circle and placing the hammer back on the floor, before joining his group towards the back. A number of werewolves queued at the edge of the circle. One, a young, handsome man with blond hair who sported jeans and a polo shirt under a leather jacket, stepped forward and picked up a hammer. He addressed the crowd.

“Aaron Ellington. Pack Leader. Santa Cruz, California,” he said, introducing himself. “For over a month now we've been hiding from them... these PsyNex guys. We've lost two pack members. Abducted, maybe bleeding to death in some fucked-up laboratory somewhere,” he nodded his head to the tent entrance the scientist had just passed through.

“We can't keep this up forever. We can't hide forever. We have lives to live, but we can't, as long as these bastards keep hunting us. We don't live in the biggest town in the world. There aren't many places for us to hide. People see you when you go out to get groceries, to take a walk, to live a normal life. Whatever we do, we have to do something, and do something soon.” He placed the hammer back on the ground and walked back to his pack, some of who were nodding in agreement at his comments, while others remained still, stoned-face and dour.

Another werewolf stepped into the circle from one of the other aisles. He was gigantic. His arms bulged with huge muscles which he displayed for everyone through his choice of a plaid shirt with the sleeves ripped off. He grasped the hammer in his hand, holding it proudly up in the air, the sight of his huge arm holding the battle hammer even impressed Derek a little bit.

“Eric Manx, Salem, Oregon.” The giant man didn't miss a beat, “I say we cut these assholes down. I'm not going to run away from a bunch of humans and their lackey omegas. Protect what's ours. Our territory, our pack, or way-of-life.” He plunged the pick end of the hammer into the ground and strode out to the sound of raucous whistling and applause.

Another werewolf, this one seeming tiny compared to the behemoth who had just left, entered the circle carrying one of the other hammers. Though seemingly small, he was only so by comparison. He was really of medium height, though thin. Scott noticed he wasn't exceptionally good-looking, but he wasn't bad-looking either. He had blond hair that was parted off center and was neatly combed. He had a baby-face that glowed innocence. He pushed his black-framed glasses back up his nose as he prepared to take his turn to speak.

“Thomas Reader: San Francisco, California,” he stated with a voice noticeably higher and significantly less impressive than the preceding wolf's. We've been having an experience similar to many of yours. That's.... why we're here. We used to live on a farm outside the city. It was a nice place, until it got overrun by creeps and some of us started to disappear. So we adapted. We moved to the city. We got a townhouse, and now we're underground. We don't see them as much, but when we do, we have the opportunity to run. It's a big place, and they can't run or jump as fast or as far as us. We've made it a point to learn the city, to know it better, and that makes it easy to lose them. I'd tell the packs that live in the smaller towns to leave and move to the cities. It's safer there.”

Again, murmurs from the crowd. Scott noticed how Thomas seemed hesitant to continue because of the reaction. He seemed unsure of whether those sounds were of people disagreeing, agreeing, or something else. Scott was surprised, though, when Thomas did continue, falteringly, but nevertheless. “I'm not saying what you should do. I'm only saying what my pack's done, and it seems to have worked better for us than for some others. All I'm saying, I guess, is that it's easier to get lost in a crowd than in an open field.” He left off with that and went back to the aisle where he laid the hammer down gently on the ground.

That hammer was immediately picked back up by another werewolf, ready to speak his peace. And the evening continued for some time like that, back and forth, with packs from all over the coast and the interior, voicing their opinions and relating their stories. The last of the speakers finally finished close to three in the morning. Derek noticed the drop of the hammer nearly perfectly coincided with his watch's second hand marking the new hour.

Derek went back up to the circle. “Friends, we've heard from many among us with many opinions. I think now it best we break. As host I declare a pause to this meeting, and I propose we resume at 11:00 AM, after we've all had time to consider the viewpoints of everyone who has spoken. As is custom, we should sleep before deciding on matters of such importance.” Derek watched the small sea of people begin to shift, as packs got out of their chairs and headed for the exits to talk amongst themselves and perhaps benefit from a few hours of sleep. A few hours of sleep, that's what Derek wished for in that moment. He was exhausted.

__

Stiles could feel the cool night air on his face as the trio made their way through the forest. It was cold enough that it brought some color to his cheeks, and the sharpness of the air was noticeable as it entered his lungs. He gave a slight shiver, and then a pause, as he noticed his jacket seemed to become warmer. It wasn't just keeping in some of his body heat, it felt to Stiles like it was radiating a warmth of its own. He was reminded of being wrapped in a towel straight out of the dryer after a shower, shivering and desperate for relief from the cold.

“There!” Maria exclaimed, pointing to a patch of ground illuminated by moonlight pouring in from a break in the trees. They made their way over to it and Stiles could see several pretty white flowers growing from the ground, open, and blossoming in the light of the moon. Deaton bent down and began to pick them.

“What are they for?” asked Stiles.

“They're poisonous,” answered Deaton, getting back up.

“Oh,” said Stiles, imagining Deaton mixing chopped up bits of the flower into someone's soup.

“But,” Deaton continued, “They can also be used for visions. To see things.”

“What kinds of things?” Stiles asked.

“It depends on who you are, and what you ask of them. In untrained hands and without proper respect, the experience can be terrifying. There is a good reason few people try it, and those who do usually only do so once. If you know how to use it correctly though, if you learn to communicate with the essence of the plant, it can show you things far away, and sometimes things which may yet happen.”

“Cool,” said Stiles, intrigued. He immediately judged himself for his response, which seemed somewhat unappreciative of what Deaton was saying, although Stiles didn't really believe in all of that.

“Let's keep going; see if we can find some more,” said Maria. They continued to make their way through the forest, moving along and finding a few more of the flowers scattered in various patches around the woods. A little while later, Maria stopped. “Let's take a break. Time for a snack,” she said, lowering herself with the support of her staff to come to a labored rest on the ground. The other two joined her and Stiles unslung the small satchel he was carrying. “ _Dame_ dame,” Maria said, reaching towards it with grabby hands.

_Crunch crunch_ , Stiles could hear the faint sound of Maria eating her trail mix. “It's so quiet out here,” he remarked.

“Not if you know how to listen,” said Maria, forcing the words through a mouthful of half-chewed nuts.

“Are you interested in magic?” asked Deaton suddenly.

Stiles hesitated, unsure. He supposed he found it interesting, but he wasn't sure if that was the same as really being interested.

“I guess so,” he said, “I've never really been good with card tricks though.” He smiled at his own joke, but the other two did not. Maria had stopped munching. _Oh my god, I think I offended them, this is_ _not good_ , Stiles thought. The silence was awkward, so very, very awkward.

“Um,” he continued, desperately trying to break the silence, “But the stuff about the plants and the visions, sounds pretty cool,” Stiles offered.

“It is,” said Maria. The munching sounds returned.

“ Is it something you think you'd be interested in learning?” asked Deaton.

“I don't know,” said Stiles. He had always been intrigued by mysteries, but he'd always confronted them using the skills he'd learned from his dad, from his schoolwork. Do research, investigate, draw connections, find patterns. But all of that was for things he could see,  _real things_ , not hocus-pocus and poisonous plants and vision quests or whatever that was all about. A plant didn't make you able to see things that were far away, that he was sure of, at least.  _Still_ , maybe there was something to it all. The two of them, Maria and Deaton, seemed like otherwise reasonable, rational people.

Deaton was looking at Stiles. His gaze was focused, but not intense. His eyes had a softness about them, as if he weren't expecting one answer or another. He seemed more content to watch Stiles as he considered what he'd asked. He knew from the very least, of course, that the amount of time Stiles took to answer meant he was not decided one way or another, and Deaton did not necessarily consider that a bad thing.

Maria was, in turn, not focused on Stiles, but rather on Deaton. She stared at him, not entirely please d he'd asked Stiles what he'd asked  in the way he'd asked . She thought back to their conversation some hours before.

_“I think he might make a good pupil,” said Deaton to Maria in a hushed voice as the two stood close to one another in the laundry room._

_“He is silly. You can see his mind wanders. Adem_ _á_ _s, he is sarc_ _á_ _stico. Nobody got time for that,” quipped Maria._

_“He is undisciplined, I will grant you that,” admitted Deaton, “But, he has a thirst for knowledge, and can accomplish_ _a great deal_ _when he is focused. It would be something we'd have to work on. We all have our strengths and weaknesses.”_

_“I do feel a strength inside him,” Maria conceded, “I know you feel it too.”_

_“_ _He may well have m_ _ore_ _strength_ _than you_ _or me_ _,” Deaton said, “Stiles was chosen by the Nogitsune for_ _some_ _reason beyond convenience.”_

_Maria agreed,_ _“If a gitsune,_ _bueno o malo_ _, found him_ _to be_ _a good home, then it ha_ _d_ _respect for him. It would not defile itself by making house in something unworthy.”_

_“Okay,” Maria_ _sighed_ _, “You ask him. If he says yes, then_ _I say_ _we ask Coyote. Let him decide.”_

_Deaton nodded his head in agreement._

“I guess it's something I'd be interested in finding out more about,” said Stiles.

“We can teach you, if you want," offered Deaton, taking on a very serious voice. “But what we offer is not a university class. It's all or nothing. You would need to be fully committed to learning it, not just studying it. You can't just study it, you must do it to understand it. It is not easy, it is not always fun, but it does reveal a great deal of the world which most people never get to see.”

Stiles again hesitated. All of it sounded a little too intense to satisfy a mild curiosity into something he didn't quite believe anyway. He wasn't sure what to say, so he tried for the diplomatic way out.

“Let me think about it,” he replied.

“Okay,” said Deaton simply, and he left it at that.

The three of them rested a little more, and when Maria had sated her hunger, she handed the bag of trail mix, significantly reduced in volume, back to Stiles, who stuffed it into the satchel.

__

Back at the ranch, Derek had drifted off to sleep almost instantaneously. It was a dark sleep, not one in which he dreamed. He had gone upstairs and laid down immediately on the bed. He hadn't bothered to check on anyone else before closing the bedroom door at the end of the hall. The sound of a click as the door met fully with the frame meant he could finally give himself permission to rest.

Not long after though, he awoke with a start. A gunshot shattered the stillness of the night. Then another, and then another.

Isaac had been perched in his tree looking down at the gate, when two black SUVs pulled up. He wondered who they were. Guests arriving very late, or something more nefarious? As the passenger and driver side doors opened and two men in suits got out to unhitch the gate, Isaac knew his question had its answer. Something also caught his eye off to his right, and he glanced over his shoulder into the woods off the side of the road. He could see green laser beams bouncing about in the night and men in black armor moving quietly towards the perimeter of the ranch.

Isaac leveled his shotgun, aiming it at one of the two men fidgeting with the gate: the one on the left, slightly farther away from him. He pumped the action, producing that singular, unmistakable sound which no one confuses with warm welcomes. The two men immediately turned around, unsure of from where, besides behind them, the sound had come. They wouldn't have to wait long to find out. Isaac pulled the trigger and the man on the left's face was suddenly shredded with steel balls, his instantly lifeless body collapsing at the knees before toppling over. His companion to the right, seeing the flash of the muzzle was now drawing his gun to return fire, but Isaac was too quick. It took him less time to pump the action and squeeze than it did for his opponent to draw his pistol. Isaac watched as the man's white shirt, exposed by his suit jacket, became speckled with the color red, before becoming saturated with its hue.

Isaac was breathing heavily, his eye still focused down the barrel of the gun. He heard a door open. He instantly refocused his aim on the now ajar rear passenger door of the closest SUV, where another man was trying to prepare to deliver fire. He peppered it, and suspected he'd hit something when he heard a cry from within the car.

 

The men in the SUV behind the lead car were shocked, completely taken aback by the sudden sound of shots. One of them managed to regain his composure for a moment to radio in what was happening. There were no words, however, to describe the scene of the third felled man yelling in agony as he collapsed onto the ground outside the car, pushing the door wide-open with his body. Nor could they conjure a description for the sight of a shotgun falling from a tree, followed by a rabid werewolf leaping to the ground, then bounding into the vehicle through the wide-open door.

They watched in horror as the SUV violently rocked back and forth, jerking from side to side, suddenly stopping for one small second of tranquility, before the werewolf exploded out of the open door, high-tailing it towards the ranch house at an impossible speed. There had been four people in the lead vehicle. Now there were none.

Derek had made it down the stairs in a panic. He'd nearly made it to the front door before it burst open and Isaac appeared. He shifted back to human form. “They're here. PsyNex is here. Front gate, armed men in the woods.”

__

Stiles, Maria, and Deaton froze in place. They'd heard the gunshots too, though the sound was much fainter. Maria looked at Deaton, and she shook her head. “They are here. I never should have left the house.” She reached into one of the bags hanging from her belt, and pulled out a vial of yellow liquid. She handed her staff to Deaton, and she opened the vial, tipping it sideways with a finger pressed over the opening. She returned it to an upright position, and standing on her tiptoes spread the liquid with her finger around the top of the staff and inside the small bowl which the claw-like offshoots formed. The whole time Stiles could hear her whispering something to herself: words, but words which he could not discern.

Maria took the staff back from Deaton, still holding the vial in her other hand, and she took a small sip from it, swishing it around in her mouth as she held the staff in the crook of her arm to re-cork the bottle and return it to her bag. Stiles watched her grasp her staff with both hands and gulp down the liquid. She fell to her knees, and she pointed her head skyward.

What Stiles heard next was one of the most unearthly sounds he could have imagined. It was the sound of a coyote howling into the crisp, tense night, but the howl was coming from Maria. The long, piercing sound seemed to last forever and it chilled Stiles to the bone. Maria looked down and turned her staff horizontally, arcing it in the direction of the ranch house, before finally stabbing the air with the end while letting out a forceful gasp of air that Stiles imagined could only be directly at the ranch itself.

“I must go,” said Maria, as she stood up. She opened another bag, pulling out a black and white feather and a bottle filled with a pink tinted dust. She sprinkled some of the dust on the ground in front of her, and then stepped onto it. She then proceeded to pour a bit of it into her hand, keeping it safe with a balled fist as she corked the bottle and returned it to its place. Maria open her hand, her palm facing up, and passed the feather over it, fanning the dust off as she stood facing the direction of the ranch.

“See you soon,” said Deaton. Maria began walking and Stiles could have sworn that she vanished from sight far sooner than simply walking into the darkness of the woods would allow.

“Come on,” said Deaton, as he placed his hand on Stiles' shoulder. “We need to hurry.”

__

Derek rushed to the balcony overlooking the field below. It was a scene of chaos. People were running about, disoriented and unsure of what was going on. They hadn't yet confronted the armed men in the forest, but they were on their way, and everyone could smell the danger now. Then, a sound. _Thoomp_. “What the hell was that?” asked Derek out-loud but to no one in particular. He soon had his answer as a canister plopped onto the grass near the edge of the tents. A gas started spewing from it. _Shit_ thought Derek.

 _Thoomp, Thoomp, Thoomp_ , the canister was very quickly joined by others, arcing their way across the sky from the tree line and into the encampment. Derek moved back and shut the kitchen door, locking it. He thought he'd detected a familiar smell from the first canister's smoke. _Wolfsbane_ he thought. _They must have infused it somehow_. His suspicions were confirmed, as he looked through the kitchen window at the werewolves below, collapsing and clawing at the ground, barely able to move, much less escape or fight.

There were more gunshots now, though Derek noticed that this time they were different. They were deep but crisp, tighter sounding than those made by Isaac's shotgun. And, more importantly, they seemed to be coming from the house. Derek bolted up the stairs, headed towards the source of the sound. It was coming from the library. He burst in to find Chris Argent silhouetted by moonlight in an otherwise dark room. He was at the window, kneeling so that his head was barely exposed, just enough to look through the thermal scope of his .30-06. Chris fired off another shot, before springing to the window at the opposite end of the library to reposition himself.

“Got a couple for ya,” he said in a tense but focused voice. _Boom_ he fired off another shot. “Make that a few for ya.” Derek looked out the window that was facing the lawn, careful to stand back so as not to be exposed to the tree line, something he was reminded of as a stray bullet whizzed by and embedded itself in the sill. Derek noticed with just a little curiosity, that the fog of gas seemed to be dissipating, and quickly at that. It was as if a breeze had blown in suddenly out of nowhere, lifting it and sending it up and out, into the night.

It became easier to see what was going on, though Derek had to admit it wasn't much. Everyone down there seemed to be on the ground, still unable to do much of anything. There was, however, a lone figure standing in the encampment. _Maria_ , Derek said to himself as he watched her leaning down to check on some of the wolves lying on the ground. Derek could see off towards the edge of the field near the creek, what looked like Stiles and Deaton running towards all of the tents.

Stiles and Deaton had run as fast as they could to try to reach the ranch, and Stiles was dismayed at how it could possibly be that they hadn't passed, or at least caught up with Maria. Yet there she was, hunched over, checking on a werewolf who laid supine on the grass. Just as they reached her, Stiles heard again that chilling sound Maria had made, though this time it wasn't coming from her. It was coming from the forest, and it was coming from more than one place.

The howls continued, and were soon accompanied by howls of a different kind. Humans, howling in pain and in terror. “Coyote has come,” said Maria. Stiles gazed into the dark forest, occasionally illuminated by a muzzle flash. He imagined the dozens of coyotes that had descended in packs from the mountains to the aid of the wolves. He could imagine them overwhelming every attacker, one by one, tearing them limb from limb.

“The trees will be watered by blood tonight,” Maria said ominously.

The flashes from the forest grew fewer, as did the screams. Things were growing quieter now and some of the werewolves in the encampment were starting to stir as they regained their strength. Stiles felt an odd chill at the sight of a lonely flash from the forest edge. The chill suddenly turned into a searing pain and Stiles doubled over in agony, before collapsing to the ground. His chest felt on fire and he suddenly couldn't breathe. He panicked, as he looked up, helpless, to the starry sky above him. A quietness descended. _I'm going to die_.

 


	8. Part Two- Action and Reaction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Archivers:  
> Hope the holidays find you well. My regrets for the delay in producing the next chapter. Nanowrimo consumed my November, and I hope anyone who participated enjoyed it as much as I did. This is it. This is the start of the second part... of three to this story. Rough? Yeah. But I wanted to get it out there. Revisions? There will be. Sexy times? Oh Jes.  
> Any revisions, like I've said in other chapters, won't affect the actual plot, or in the direst of circumstances, only in minor ways.  
> As always, enjoy. I hope you find it entertaining. It was fun to write, and I'm looking forward to the next chapter taking a lot less time than this last one.

Stiles' desperate gasps for air were so loud, so tormented and desperate, that everything else may as well have been silence and that moment a decade. He couldn't hear the thud of Maria and Deaton falling to their knees next to him, nor could he make out the faint but growing yells from Derek, who had witnessed it all from the library, and run full speed until he'd reached Stiles' body heaving without air, cradled by cold blades of green grass.

It was exactly like a panic attack. For someone else, it may have been too much. Someone else might have passed out. But Stiles had known the feeling before, that feeling of a heart racing like a thoroughbred's, the feeling of his throat closing up, the inability, no matter how many shallow breaths, to take in enough air. He was drowning above water, and maybe soon below it, as he felt wet hot tears pooling up.

His eyes looked around as he panted desperately. Maria leaned over him and took his hand, cradling it in both of hers, like a nun bringing comfort to some lost-soul about to depart the Earth. Stiles felt her move his hand in slow circles across his chest as she laid it down gently on his breast. His hand felt something warm- more than warm, something on the verge of hot, something metal. Stiles' panting stopped for a minute. He looked down.

There was a bullet, squished, flattened, indented into the leather of the jacket. It was surrounded by a solid gold substance, preventing it from penetrating the leather, bunched up as if it were a small shield, formed out of nothing and nowhere, to save him. It was hard for him to see it all from his perspective, but Maria and Deaton and Derek saw it: a golden disk sitting beneath a flattened bullet, surrounded by flakes of gold dust shimmering in a constellation that radiated out from the impact, as if they were the last stragglers who had not traveled there quite quickly enough.

Stiles' head collapsed back, his neck exhausted, but the back of his skull was cushioned by Derek's palm which met it as it fell. Stiles became fixated on Derek's eyes. There was a light reflecting off them, two small squares of light, one in each eye. It came from a field light set up on the lawn. It had been there the entire time, but he hadn't ever noticed it. It caught him, though, in that reflection. Stiles stared at them and forgot everything else except how tranquil those two little dots of light seemed, and how warm Derek's face framing the periphery of it all made him feel. He suddenly noticed that he was calm, and rather than thinking that would be the last sign before the end, he noticed the coolness of the air seeping into his lungs. The shallowness of his breaths eased slowly into something more substantial.

Maria had put something in her mouth and had started to chew it. She motioned to Deaton with her chin and Deaton unzipped the jacket and then unbuttoned Stiles' shirt, spreading it open. Stiles could see a soft sadness in Derek's eyes. He felt the hot sting where the bullet had hit him as it met the cold air to which it was now exposed. Maria and Deaton looked for a moment. “The skin isn't broken,” Deaton observed, “But that's a hell of a bruise.”

Maria took the substance she'd been chewing out of her mouth. It looked like a ball of leaves held together by spit. She gently placed it onto the still rising, swollen bump from the bullet impact. It was already a deep, dark purple red, and Stiles cried out as she gently brushed the skin with the leaves. She finally tore a bit into the ball, loosening the mixture. She secured it in place with some gauze and tape that Deaton had in his bag. Stiles noticed that the extreme soreness he felt, and the horrible pain from the wound being touched, was gently subsiding into a tingling sensation around the area. It didn't hurt so much anymore. It was just a dull throb at worst now. It was something he could live with.

“Let's get him upstairs,” Derek said. He and Deaton lifted him up by the shoulders and carried him into the house. “How are you feeling?” Derek asked as they lay him in the bed.  
“Fine,” Stiles said, surprised, a little, at the fact that it was true. “Actually, I'll probably be down in a few minutes. Just going to relax for a little bit.”  
“Just take it easy for now,” Deaton said reassuringly. “I'm going to remove the anesthetic for a moment before I check for any broken ribs. We want to take care of that before we have you walking around.”  
Deaton removed the tape and the mixture of leaves Maria had put on the bruise.  
“What is that?” asked Stiles.  
“Coca leaves. They act as a local anesthetic,” Deaton explained.  
“Hmm,” Stiles murmured, arching his eyebrows from intrigue, “Not exactly legal is that?” he asked. His question was ignored.  
Deaton threw away the mixture in the bathroom and returned to Stiles' side.  
“Does it hurt when you breathe?” he asked.  
Stiles took a breath, “No.”  
Deaton placed his hands on the breastbone in the center of Stiles' chest. He pushed down slowly and gently, just for a moment. “Does that hurt?”  
“No,” Stiles replied.  
Deaton placed two fingers at the based of the bruise's swelling, he tapped it ever so lightly.  
“Ow!” Stiles yelled.  
“Sorry,” Deaton said, unable to contain a smile, “I had to make sure that you were able to feel something.”  
“Well I felt that!” Stiles said, making a sour face.  
Deaton went to the medicine cabinet in the bathroom and brought Stiles back some water and a white pill. “Here, take this. It doesn't appear that any of your ribs are fractured. Still, take it easy. You most likely bruised the bone.”  
“I didn't bruise it,” Stiles said defensively.  
“Shut up and take it,” Derek said, rolling his eyes as he cupped Stiles' hand in his own and moved it up to Stiles' mouth.  
Stiles grunted, then gulped down the tablet and half the glass of water before letting his head fall back down to the pillow. Derek took the glass from his hand and set it on the nightstand. He leaned down and kissed Stiles' head. “I'll be back in a little bit,” he said as he got up to leave.  
Derek headed outside to the balcony where things were eerily quiet. _Where is everyone?_ He thought. He heard some faint noise from the big meeting tent, and he cocked his head wondering what could be going on. He went down the stairs and across the field, the noise from the tent growing more distinct. He recognized a voice, Peter.  
“And that's why we must act now,” said Peter, his words met with applause, as Derek entered the tent.  
Peter looked over at the newcomer. Derek's eyes communicated to his uncle exactly what he was thinking, What the hell are you doing? And Get over here now.  
Peter paused a moment, his hands still suspended in the air from his grandiose gesturing.  
“Excuse me a moment,” Peter said to the crowd. His voice not charismatic as it had been. “If someone else would like to take the floor, please feel free.” He exited the circle and walked over to Derek. He looked confident, he almost always did, but Derek knew him a little better than that. Something about the way he looked at Derek as he approached signaled that he'd been up to no good, and was afraid of getting caught.  
“Hello Nephew,” Peter said, trying to act as nonchalantly as possible. Derek didn't buy it, and he was in no mood to entertain the idea of pretending he was. “What do you think you're doing?” he said flatly.  
“Trying to get this group to decide on something before the next ambush comes through the gates,” he said.  
What?” Peter asked, cocking his head, “Did you really think, after everything that just happened, people were going to wait in line, calmly and orderly, copies of Roberts' Rules at the ready?”  
“You could have waited. You had no right to reconvene this. I'm the host. Only I can re-open the meeting with any legitimacy,” Derek responded, voice low and menacing.  
Peter was unfazed, “You forget I own half this damn ranch.”  
“And what?” asked Derek, “That makes you host? Host of his own party showing up late? Doing nothing to welcome anyone here? You've got to be fucking joking me.” Derek scoffed and looked over his shoulder, as if someone behind him might have heard how ridiculous Peter sounded.

Peter looked off in the distance, dismissing his nephew's words as some trite, petulant outburst. “Someone had to take control of this. You were off taking care of your little boyfriend while everyone downstairs, all your guests, tried to recover from being poisoned. All the while unsure if there will be another attack, unsure if their host had even considered that a possibility while he ran off to kiss his baby's bruise.”

“I know what you're doing,” Derek replied.  
“Really?” asked Peter mockingly incredulous, “Because it doesn't even seem like you know what you're doing.”

Somewhere in the back of his mind Derek knew that part of what Peter said was right. But he also knew that didn't mean Peter had said it for the right reasons.

Derek sighed, resigned. He wasn't going to go down this road, just re-direct it to where it needed to go, “I'll thank you to include me next time.” Peter nodded, then walked away to shake the hands of a few werewolves making their way in, greeting them and asking if they were okay.

An hour passed. All the while people rehashed the same thing, over and over. Nothing was getting done. Peter retook the circle after the last werewolf had spoken. It was time for him to put things back in motion. Someone had to, it seemed. Derek watched as Peter did what he did best: churn out the theatrics.  
“We've gathered here to find answers, and maybe we've found more than we expected,” Peter held up his finger, taking a dramatic pause, “But, we are also gathered here to take action. Since the quorums before and after our little break, a number of representatives have indicated they'd like to make proposals. Now, we did not come together as a body to make rules. That is, right now, up to the packs. But we can make recommendations from our findings: recommendations that might prove useful to packs not present and unaware of all that has happened. Therefore, I invite anyone wishing to make a proposal to do so now.”

A tall, slender woman with straight blond hair stood up in the back.  
“Ah! Alicia, pack leader from Vancouver,” Peter said.  
She nodded, acknowledging the group, “I'll make a motion that we recommend packs in suburban or rural areas under threat, move to larger cities, and that every pack in a large city be obligated to assist them.” 

“Does anyone second that motion?” asked Peter.  
Several hands went up, and then before Peter could figure out how to choose which one to take the floor, Eric Manx, the werewolf from Salem, Oregon, with his hand held high, stood up, “I second the motion.”

Peter nodded, “All in favor of this body recommending that packs in suburban or rural areas under threat move to urban areas, and that urban packs should do their best to assist them, signify by saying 'aye.'”

There were a few hands, more than a few. It didn't seem as if people knew who could vote and who could not. Peter didn't seem to care.

“All those opposed?” asked Peter. Fewer hands than the few that had gone up.  
“Motion carries.”

Another person stood up. Derek recognized him as being from Los Angeles. Reno, Derek thought. That guy is garbage.  
“I make a motion that we reconvene in a month, in a different location. Let's see what all of this does. Let's see how many more packs come after hearing about all of this.” His hands were everywhere. He talked like some television mafia guy.

“Are you making a motion with a specific place to meet?” Peter asked.  
“I'll make a motion that we reconvene in one month, new packs invited, and it'll be in...” the werewolf paused for a moment trying to think off the top of his head where would be best, “Portland,” he finally said.

“Why Portland?” asked Derek loudly, causing heads to turn and look back at him.  
The man seemed to not have expected an explanation, “Because,” he said shrugging, “I like the weather!” He got a few laughs, and Derek didn't push the issue further. Peter's eyes were boring into him and he knew it.

There was some discussion back and forth with regards to the location, but when a vote was called, a clear majority again voted for the proposal.

“I'd like to make one further proposal, if I might,” said Peter. The tent quieted down for him. Derek didn't like how the silence made him feel.

“You may have noticed that as a species, we've adapted to changes: changes in time, in place, in politics, and we've done so with remarkable success. You may have also noticed, that despite all this evolution, we still manage to hold onto certain remnants of the past, traditions,” he said pointing at the hammers in the aisles, “The way things are done, or should be done.”

“Sometimes we forget parts of the past which ought not to have been forgotten. Maybe our enemies have given us something they never intended by reminding us of that,” Peter said.  
Derek was confused, What is he talking about?  
“This company PsyNex and the military, seek to create a cadre of wolf-warriors, as it were. Fierce, dependable, enduring, ruthless, cunning, strong, terrifying, relentless in the face of their foes.”  
The silence continued. Everyone was listening. “Ulfhednar,” he said with a force that woke up even the sleepiest of attendees. “That is what they were called in the old days, when men would don the cloak of a wolf and be possessed by its spirit. That is what the armies of today are trying to resurrect.”  
“And you know,” Peter said, pointing his finger up as if a light bulb had suddenly illuminated above his head, “I recently thought of another connection between the present and the past, the same past as the Ulfhednar. He stopped. No one said a word.  
“I propose that we reinstate the Folkmoot,” said Peter. There were murmurs and commotion in the crowd. Peter knew that only the oldest of the werewolves, and maybe one or two of the younglings with a penchant for history would know what he was talking about.

“What the hell is 'The Folkmoot?'” Scott whispered into Derek's ear.  
“The Folkmoot is an ancient political assembly. It's the Anglo-saxon term for a type of political assembly common across a lot of Northern European regions,” Derek explained.  
“But Folkmoot?” asked Scott, “I'm sorry but that sounds fucking retarded.”  
Scott flinched and gave a small cry as Derek flicked his ear with his finger.  
“First of all, I don't give a fuck if you like how it sounds. That's what it's called. And secondly, don't use that word. It's offensive,” said Derek.  
“What word?” asked Scott. He gave another cry as he felt Derek flick his ear again, harder. “You know what word,” Derek replied through gritted teeth.  
“Ow, Okay!” Scott said, rubbing the side of his head.

Then it was as if nothing had happened, “Point of clarification,” said Derek loudly, rising to his feet. The commotion in the crowd stopped briefly to hear what he would say. Peter cocked his head to the side, curious as to what his little nephew Derek would bring up.

“As I recall,” said Derek, 'Folkmoot' were available to freemen. Whom do you consider to be 'freemen,' exactly?”

Peter smiled, “Anyone who belongs to a pack,” he said before turning to look more generally at everyone, raising his voice, “Every one of us here is a freeman. The Folkmoot was used long ago, when packs were engaged in such terrible in-fighting that we bordered on destroying ourselves. It brought order, peace, cooperation. Over time, as we spread to more and more places, the system was slowly forgotten. Now is the perfect time to bring it back, to provide us with unity in the face of a common enemy. To work together.”

“So,” Peter said, “Again, I will move to reinstate the Folkmoot.”  
“Seconded,” said Eric, the werewolf in plaid from Salem.

A werewolf in the back, sitting with the group from Seattle, the one Peter had arrived with, raised his hand. Derek didn't recognize him. Peter noticed his hand too, and raised an eyebrow, seemingly surprised. He motioned for the werewolf to stand and say what he wanted. He stepped out into the aisle to address the assembly. Everyone's eyes turned to watch the man.  
Derek took note of him, as did Scott. Derek thought he remembered him from somewhere, his name was Michael, if his his memory served. He was wearing a black button up shirt, black pants, and black shoes. A pair of black glasses framed a lightly complexioned face. A beard of brown, neatly trimmed hair ringed his visage like a half moon opening up to the sky. The top of his head was shaved clean. The black (of course) scarf around his neck, wrapped once around, made Scott expect him to be one of those too-cool, mysterious artistic types. Scott wouldn't have been surprised if he was missing a beret somewhere. But he was surprised that when he spoke that the man seemed perfectly down-to-Earth, even, maybe like-able.

“You know, I think this is a good idea that we're having this meeting, but I'd like to make an observation, if I could,” His arms were crossed, but he lifted one of them and pointed a finger at Peter, “If we're going to talk about anonymity, and making ourselves harder to be found, I'm not sure if we can avoid the fact that another meeting like this, with probably more wolves than tonight, might be kind of hard to keep under the radar. Maybe we should send a delegate from each of the packs. Keep it small, less noticeable.”

“And how should each pack know who to send? Should it be the alpha, or someone else?” asked Peter.

“Let them send who they want. Why should we tell them who to send?” said Michael.  
Peter was intrigued. Derek knew Peter would have preferred that it automatically be the alpha of the pack- the one who was in charge was in charge for a reason, after all. On the other hand, the idea of letting the pack vote, make their own decision, seemed like a good idea too. It perhaps gave them a sense of autonomy and agency in what was quickly becoming a more structured political apparatus.

“Very well,” Peter said, “Would you like to introduce a motion formally?”

“Yes,” Michael replied, “I would like to motion that the next meeting be attended by one representative from each pack wishing to take part.”  
“I'll make a friendly amendment to the gentleman's proposal,” said Thomas, the wolf from San Francisco.  
Derek smiled. He was watching Peter and noticed the difference in his reaction to this proposal, compared with those before.  
“Very well,” Peter said darkly.  
“I'll motion that every pack wishing to attend the next meeting be allowed to send a representative and an alternate, someone entitled to appear at the meeting and who can vote in the delegate's stead if he or she is not present.”  
“Does anyone second?” asked Peter, his voice lacking amusement of any kind.  
“Sounds reasonable to me,” said a gruff looking werewolf sitting on the other side of the tent. “Terrance Arlington, Coeur d'Alene, Idaho,” he said getting up, “I second the young man's motion.”

The proposal seemed to make sense to a lot of people. The vote wasn't even close.

Peter ended the meeting on a positive note, “Well, thank you for all coming. It's been an enlightening, and most-of-all productive meeting, despite the rude interruption by our PsyNex friends earlier. But, if nothing else, no one was hurt, and we've come out of this stronger than we were.”

The packs began to leave the tent and milled around outside. The air of the place grew steadily more jovial. Not a single werewolf died in the attack. In fact, their enemies had been soundly scattered to the wind- those of them left alive anyway. That victory and the growing feeling of control: that something was to be done, that a plan was in motion, caused the mood to lighten. Packs, especially from rural areas, were talking with packs from urban areas, seeking advice on where to move, or even being offered shelter, permanent or temporary.

Scott was walking around, unsure of where he was going, but he took the opportunity to do a little people watching. Suddenly, Derek grabbed him by the sleeve and pulled him aside, “I need to talk to you,” he said furtively, looking around to see who might be nearby.

“Okay,” Scott said hesitantly, his eyes shifting from left to right, unsure of what Derek wanted to discuss or why he was suddenly being so intense.

“Not here,” Derek said, “Let's go up to the house.” The trouble with keeping secrets in a place like this was everyone had exceptionally good hearing. It would be best, Derek thought, if they were as far away as possible from prying eyes and ears. If it had been practical, he'd have driven them out to town just to be sure.

Scott closed the door behind him after following Derek into the library. The place smelled of gun powder, but Chris and his rifle were long gone. Chris was off somewhere else, but that olfactory reminder of his nighttime vigilance lingered in the air. Derek sat down in his desk chair, and Scott, who would normally not have done so, sat on the edge of the desk close to Derek, his closeness showing he appreciated that the conversation was private, and sensitive.

“Peter's up to something,” Derek said abruptly.  
“I know,” Scott replied.  
“Do you know what?” Derek asked.  
“My guess is as good as yours. He wants something. Power, probably. Isn't that his usual M.O.?” asked Scott.  
Derek was looking off into space, pondering the possibilities. “Usually,” he admitted, “I think I know what's going on. I just don't know the details- the how, when, and why of it all.”  
Scott was looking down at the ground now. Derek could hear the sound of the deep exhale from Scott's nose, as if it vented his frustration. “I guess those are all pretty important things, huh?” Scott asked.  
“It's everything,” said Derek.

“I need you to do something for me,” Derek said.  
“What? Anything,” Scott said, looking up, hopeful Derek had a plan.  
“I think I know Peter's next move. I think he's heading to Portland,” said Derek.  
“What makes you say that?” asked Scott, “He's been spending all his time in Seattle. Why wouldn't he go back there?”  
“Something about the way he interacted with the two alphas at the meeting,” Derek said, “But I'm not entirely sure.”  
“So what do you need me to do?” Scott asked.  
“I may need you to go with one of those packs,” said Derek. “Beacon Hills is too small, and we need to move out. Where is another question. I don't plan on all of us staying together. In an ideal world, I'd want you close to Peter. But I understand we're not pack. You have to make up your own mind.”  
Scott nodded, “I'll ask Isaac where he wants to go. I think I know the answer already. We'll see. Maybe I can convince him.” Scott started for the door, but Derek's arm caught him.

“I need someone close to him,” Derek said. It was the most serious tone Scott could remember him taking. “Okay,” he replied looking down at his arm, still grasped tightly in Derek's hand. Derek took note and released him. His eyes softened. “Come see me when you've talked to him. I'll be with Stiles.”

Scott headed downstairs and skirted the kitchen where Deaton and Maria we talking, pausing only briefly to ask, “Have you seen Isaac?” A couple of brief nods in the negative and he was headed out the door to the balcony. Looking over the railing, surveying the lawn below revealed Isaac apart from the crowd. He was talking to Priscilla by the chimenea. Scott rolled his eyes as he headed down the stairs towards them.

“It's quite a large field, more diverse in specialized areas of knowledge than most would think,” said Priscilla, before turning to see Scott approaching them, “Oh hello, Scott!”

“Hello,” Scott greeted her in return, with just enough feigned warmth to avoid seeming rude.  
“How is Stiles doing, did you see him upstairs?” asked Priscilla.  
“No, I didn't. He's resting, but Derek assured me he's fine,” Scott responded, before looking over at Isaac, “May I borrow you for a moment?”

Scott led him over to the tree line. He turned, causing Isaac to stop abruptly. “So, Priscilla was introducing you to the diverse field of bomb-making, or maybe, I'm sorry, candle making, was it? It's hard to distinguish.”  
“Actually, we were talking about her work in probate law,” Isaac replied defensively.  
“Oh,” Scott said a little embarrassed, thought trying not to show it, “Well, what's that anyway?” he said, not really caring, but eager to push the conversation away from his faux pas.  
“All kinds of things, like guardianship, or conservatorship of minors or adults, becoming the personal representative of an estate, challenging wills, adopting someone of majority age, stuff like that” Isaac said.  
“What, are you thinking about becoming a lawyer or something?” Scott asked.  
Isaac plunged his hands into his jeans' pockets and looked down at the grass which he kicked with one foot as he shrugged, “No, well, I don't know. I was just making conversation with someone who does interesting stuff.”  
Scott took in a small breath and let it out trying to take a moment to calm himself down. He clearly wasn't on the same page with Isaac, and Isaac probably had no idea why he was so tense. Scott took a different angle, sitting himself down in the grass, deliberately making himself prone and smaller than Isaac. Now it was Isaac's turn to feel uncomfortable. It felt awkward to talk to someone sitting cross-legged on the ground while he was standing. He sat down on the grass too.  
Scott held his hands, palms down, in front of Isaac. Isaac took them.  
“Isaac, you know we have to leave Beacon Hills, and we can't stay here any more,” Scott said.  
“I know,” Isaac replied, sinking into the large collar of his cardigan, “I'm going to miss this place. I'm going to miss that tree,” he said.  
“What tree?” Scott asked, looking around at the many different ones Isaac could choose from.  
“My tree,” Isaac said, “The one by the gate. My sitting tree.”  
Scott looked him in the eyes, his own crowned by furrowed brows, “We're not going to have trees where we're going,” he said, squeezing Isaacs' hands, “You heard. We've got to move to the city.”  
“What city will we move to?” Isaac asked.  
Scott gave a pause. “I think we should go to Portland,” he said. Isaac's eyes softened as his cheeks raised up a bit, disappointed, “But I was hoping we could go to Seattle,” he said.  
Scott raised an eyebrow, “Why Seattle?”  
“Priscilla I could do an apprenticeship with her. Learn some stuff. Useful stuff.”  
“About law?” asked Scott, fully knowing that was not the answer.  
“No,” Isaac admitted.  
“Then what about?” Scott pressed him. Isaac didn't want to say it out loud. Scott could tell.  
“About constructing reliable and quality tools for use in modern combat and combat-deterrence situations,” said Isaac suddenly and confidently.  
_Jesus Christ, I leave him alone for five minutes with that woman and he's already got an elevator speech,_ Scott thought.  
He was brought back into the moment when Isaac asked him a question this time, “Why do you want to go live with Peter anyway?'  
“What do you mean live with Peter?” Scott asked.  
“Well, that's where he's going. He's going to move in with the Portland pack. You know, with the big lumber jack looking guy?”  
“I thought he was from Salem,” said Scott.  
“I guess so, but for all his tough talk he's apparently moving closer to the big city,” Isaac said.  
“How do you know all of this?” Scott asked.  
“Priscilla told me,” Isaac shrugged.  
Scott had avoided the original question. He was hoping Isaac would have forgotten after the little sidetrack they'd started.  
“So why Portland over Seattle?” asked Isaac.  
_Shit._ Scott was trying to think of something. What excuse could he use? He didn't have family there. That wasn't an excuse. Coffee? Portland had a great coffee scene. Oh, I guess Seattle does too.  
“It's weird,” Scott blurted out.  
“What?” Isaac asked, as if he hadn't heard him correctly.  
“It's weird. Portland's weird,” Scott said, looking down at the ground, twiddling his thumbs and hoping he'd buy that pathetic excuse.  
Isaac looked at him unconvinced, before shaking his head and snorting, “You're weird.”  
“Yes exactly,” said Scott, as he was interrupted by Isaac grabbing him into a hug and pulling him over the ground, “Hey wait a minute, I'm the weirdo? You're the one who wants to a be a... oh never mind,” he said as he wrapped his arms around Isaac.  
“So we're going to Seattle then?” asked Isaac.  
Scott stopped. He thought it was taken care of. It was too easy. He should have known better.  
He sighed, resigned, “If you have to go to Seattle, then go. I don't like it. I don't want you around her. I want you around me. But if that's what you want to do, then, okay. I'm not happy about it though.”  
“Well, I'm not happy that you're not coming with me!” said Isaac.  
“I have to go to Portland,” Scott replied seriously.  
Isaac pushed him away just a little so they made eye contact, “Why do you have to go to Portland?”  
Scott pulled himself in close to Isaac's ear and whispered, “I have to keep an eye on Peter.”  
“Oh,” said Isaac, suddenly realizing what was going on.  
“I know I can trust you to keep that between you and me, can't I?” Scott asked.  
“Of course you can,” Isaac said, before hugging him again.  
Scott felt a little better, warmer.  
“I still have to go to Seattle, though,” he heard Isaac whisper. Scott's heart sank. He whispered back, “Keep an eye on that pack leader up there, that Michael guy. I want regular reports.”  
“What, are you my alpha now?” said Isaac, pulling away and assuming a mock-offended voice, “I might have to go talk to Derek.”  
“This comes from him,” said Scott seriously, before his voice changed to something sly and playful, “You could though,”, he leaned in again towards Isaac's ear, “But then you'd risk getting a spanking from both of us.” Scott pinned him down on the ground and pretended to gnaw at his ear, _Om nom nom nom nom._ Isaac laughed and threw his hands and feet in the air, flailing about.

Scott afforded a few minutes to wrestling with Isaac in the grass, before he finally said he had to get back upstairs. They promised they'd see each other before either one of them had to leave. Scott headed back upstairs and went down the hall to Derek and Stiles' bedroom. The door was cracked open, the sound of the TV coming through it. Scott knocked gingerly on the door, declining to peek through the crack for modesty's sake. “Come in!” he heard. He pushed the door open and took a step inside.

“Oh hi!” Scott heard Stiles say. Stiles was laid out on the bed, propped up by some pillows, with a bowl of ice cream on his stomach, balanced by one hand while the other held a spoon. Scott almost laughed but caught himself as he noticed Stiles had, for some reason, chosen to change back into Maria's 'Party Time' shirt. Derek was laying on the bed next to him, their bodies side-by-side. Scott looked over at the TV.  
“House Hunters?” he asked rhetorically.

“International,” said Derek and Stiles at the same time, although Stiles said it through a mouth full of ice cream. Derek lifted his hand and flicked his finger at the door, indicating Scott should close it. He did, and looked back as Derek patted his hand on the comforter next to him. “We're only on the first house,” he said.  
“How are you feeling Stiles?” Scott asked as he went over to the bed.  
“Fabulous,” Stiles said, his eyes not leaving the television for a second.

Scott kicked off his shoes. He wasn't sure how to exactly get into bed like this. At home he never though much about it. He just plopped down when he was tired, clothes or not. No fuss, no mess. He carefully climbed onto the bed and laid back gently, careful not to create much of a disturbance. No one seemed to care. “Is that?” Scott began, looking over at the thing perched on top of Stiles' ice cream, “Is that a curly fry?”  
“Oh my god,” said Stiles, “They go so well with ice cream.” His eyes never left the television.  
“Maria made one for him. She knows they're his favorite,” Derek said.  
“She made a curly fry?” Scott asked, “To put on his ice cream?”  
“I did get shot, after all,” said Stiles in his own defense.  
Derek nodded, “He did get shot after all.”  
Derek leaned over and whispered to Scott, “And Deaton gave him a hell of a painkiller.”  
“I can tell,” Scott whispered back.  
They all giggled and turned their attention back to the television. Images of the second house appeared as the couple were traveling with the realtor to go see it.  
“Why do they always show them some goddamn condo that's way the fuck out of their price range?” cried Derek.  
“I know! It's the same thing every fucking time!” said Stiles, his spoon clinking against the bowl as he set it down, “If I'm like, 'My max budget is 300,000' and you show me a set-up that cost $350,000, I'm going to be like, 'Biiiitch, do you know math? And what a budget is?”

They watched the episode to the end. It wasn't long, but it felt long for Scott. His mind was elsewhere, focused on telling Derek about his conversation with Isaac. As the credits rolled at their impossible television-speed, Derek finally broke the silence for him, “So what did Isaac say?”  
“He's going to Seattle.”  
“You couldn't convince him to go to Portland?”  
“I... have a hard time saying no to him,” Scott admitted.  
“I need someone in Portland,” Derek said matter-of-factly.  
“If this were any other time, I'd tell you to go suck a fuck. I'm not your pack,” said Scott defiantly, before breathing a resigned sigh, “But this isn't any other time, so I'll do it.”  
“Does Isaac know you'll be apart?”  
“Yes,” Scott said, his voice unhappy.  
Derek started flipping channels, “You won't be alone there. I mean, not alone with Peter anyway. Malia's going to be there too.”  
“Do you trust her?” Scott asked.  
“Do you think I would have asked you to go if I did?”  
There was a brief silence that followed that last question.  
“You know she's not bad, right?” Scott asked.  
“I don't think she's bad or good. I think she's young and impressionable, and that she's her father's daughter,” Derek said.  
“Isaac is young and impressionable too,” Scott pointed out.  
Derek's voice was distant, something hollow and faint, “I know.” He continued to flip through the channels on the television.  
“Wait a minute!” Stiles' voice pierced through the air, “'Suck-a-fuck?' Are you kidding me? You've seen that movie but you still haven't seen Star Wars?!? You've got to be kidding me!”  
Scott laughed a little, but it faded as he realized Stiles had been listening the whole time, he'd heard everything, and hadn't made a sound, as if none of this surprised him.  
“Does he know about all this?” he asked Derek.  
“About me keeping track of who's going where? About keeping tabs on Peter?” asked Derek.  
“Oh yeah,” said Stiles nonchalantly, finishing off the last of the now melted ice cream soup, “Peter's totally evil. I wouldn't trust him in an outhouse with a muzzle on him.”  
Scott turned to look at Derek, his face miming confusion as he mouthed _What?_  
“Stiles has recently taken to reviving old-timey sounding words and phrases,” said Derek with a shrug, as if he couldn't be bothered by Stiles' latest nonsense.  
“Wait,” said Scott, “Is that why you've been referring to the refrigerator as an 'ice-box' recently?”  
“I've always called it that,” said Stiles casually.  
Derek sighed, “No he hasn't.”  
Scott could see a grin spread across Stiles' face as he continued to watch the television. Scott shook his head, smiling a little, _such a weirdo,_ he thought. But Scott loved him for it.

He turned his attention back to Derek, “So do you know where everyone else is going?”  
Derek muted the television, “For the most part, yes. I've decided that Stiles and I will go to San Francisco. Thomas Reader there said he'd help us settle in and find a place of our own when we're ready. I'm going to take Danny with me as well.”  
“And Seattle?” Scott asked.  
“Well, now we know Isaac will be there because of Priscilla. I haven't heard anything out of Chris Argent, but my guess is that as much time as he spends up there, and the fact the Priscilla is a close friend and partner, he'll be there too. Oh, and Kira. Again, I haven't heard anything from her, but she's stuck by his side. I can't see her leaving. It's almost like he's taken her on as a student,” Derek mused.  
“So that leaves Malia and me to hang out with Peter and creepy lumberjack wolf,” said Scott unhappily.  
“Well, not necessarily,” Derek replied cryptically.  
“Who else is there?” Scott asked, intrigued.  
Derek caught himself, “Well, of course, Peter might be moving in with the Portland pack. They can't be all bad, can they? You're sure to make at least a friend or two.” Derek could see from his face that Scott was far from convinced by that little diversion.  
“We're working on it,” Derek said with no further explanation.

Scott nodded, and didn't push the issue further. He wasn't looking forward to the idea of spending his time in close-quarters with Peter or anyone else in Portland, for that matter. He resented the whole thing, and felt guilty at the same time for thinking like that. _Sometimes you just have to do things you don't want to,_ he thought, as he got off the bed. “I have to go tell the Salem pack I'm moving with them to Portland,” he said. He stopped just as he was almost completely out the door.  
“Thank you,” he heard Derek say from the bedroom.  
Scott didn't respond. He lingered there for the briefest of seconds, acknowledging Derek's thanks. Then he continued towards the stairs to go find his new housemates.

An hour later and Scott went back up to his room. The windows' shutters were open, and light filled an otherwise empty space. He closed the door behind him and proceeded to pull of his shirt, tossing it into the corner. He unbuckled his belt and slid his remaining clothes off. They joined the shirt, unceremoniously tossed into a swiftly forgotten heap as he went into the bathroom and warmed up the shower.

It felt good- the water trickling through his hair and over his skin. But what Scott liked most of all, what he had always liked most of all, was the noise. The constant pitter-patter of the water. It soothed him, and the sound, more than anything else, was what washed away any worry, any memory, or any expectation that troubled him. Yet as soothing as he found them, he almost never took very long showers, usually only on his birthday, and Christmas. Growing up with a working mom and a dad who hadn't been around, he was keenly aware of wasting things like water and electricity on heating extra long showers. He remembered it was actually Danny who got a talking to from Maria. He'd taken what he considered a normal length shower, long enough for four of five Robyn songs. Maria had asked him whether he was aware that he wasn't staying in a rain forest.

Scott got out and rubbed the towel vigorously against his hair before passing it over the rest of his body and draping it around his waist. A knot just to the right and below his navel held it in place. He walked back out into the bedroom when he spotted him: Isaac. He was wasn't wearing his cardigan and jeans anymore. He was in a suit. A blue suit Scott hadn't remembered him bringing with him. It fit quite well, form fitting, matched with a checkered oxford shirt and a thin, brown tie. Then there was the white handkerchief peeking out from his breast pocket. Scott didn't know how he'd ever passed for straight.

The smile on Scott's face was not matched by Isaac's. Scott realized it, and he suddenly took on a more somber appearance, trying to assess the situation. Oh please don't be mad. I don't want to have a fight right before we say goodbye. The worrying thought quickly disappeared.

“Hyello Meester Bond,” Isaac said in his best fake-Eastern European accent.  
Oh God, thought Scott.  
“Why you no sit?” asked Isaac, motioning to a chair to his left by the door.  
Scott walked over, hesitantly. Isaac liked this kind of stuff. It wasn't usually his thing. Sometimes it was though. He had to learn to loosen up and play along. He tried, but it came hard to him. Still, he put on his best Sean Connery accent as he sat down in the chair.  
“You'll never get away with this Goldfingler,” he said.  
“That's what they always say, Meester Bond,” Isaac replied from behind, as he slapped a pair of handcuffs onto Scott's wrists.  
“What do you plan on doing to me?” Scott asked out of the side of his mouth.  
“Oh, not so much,” Isaac replied, lifting the fold of the towel and peeking underneath, “We just need to know of any secrets you've been hiding, and of course, extract anything that may be useful.”  
“I don't know have any secrets,” Scott objected.  
“Now now, Meester Bond,” Isaac tutted, “It appears you have a very big one right here. Shall we take a closer look?” Scott's head lurched back as he felt the warm-wetness come over him. He gasped involuntarily when Isaac's tongue slinked past him, the bumps of his taste buds rubbing in heavenly friction against his head.  
Isaac's rhythm suddenly stopped at the sound of a clicking noise. Scott had wolfed just enough to change one of his fingers into a claw, the point able to reach into the keyhole of one of the the cheap handcuffs. Isaac felt himself suddenly lifted up and pushed back, as Scott grabbed him by the armpits and forced him onto the bed directly across from the chair.  
“I don't think so, Agent Isaac,” said Scott, as he flipped Isaac over gently laying him belly-down on the bed with his legs hanging over the side. Scott closed the cuff he'd unlocked around Isaac's right wrist, which he'd pinned behind his back. They were connected now. Isaac was breathing heavily, even more so as he felt Scott's left hand, the one which had supported him as he lay him down, slide between his body and the bed down to the bulge in his trousers.  
“What were you hoping to discover?” asked Scott playfully. He slid his hand back up to Isaac's chest, and pulled him towards him, helping him to stand up again. He grabbed hold of Isaac's free hand, his fingers enveloping his bony wrist. He guided it slowly down so it rested on Isaac's belt buckle. “Undo your trousers,” said Scott as he released his hand. As Isaac struggled to do as he was told, Scott unlocked the handcuff around his other wrist, grabbing the connecting chain tight to keep Isaac's right hand pulled up against his lower back.

“Time's up,” said Scott as he reached around and grabbed Isaac's free hand, joining it with the other so he was securely cuffed. Isaac had only managed to undo his belt. Scott clicked his tongue as he undid the top button of his trousers and swiftly pulled them down around his ankles. Isaac gave a small grunt as Scott pushed him back over onto the bed. There was no gentle arm to guide him down this time.

“Like a peach,” Scott muttered to himself as he gazed at Isaac's exposed ass laying just on the edge of the bed. The room was silent for a minute as Scott disappeared into the bathroom. Lube wasn't something he exactly traveled with in his overnight bag, but moisturizer was. The sound of the bottle's pump made the most unattractive splurting noise as it deposited the cream in his hand.  
“Gross,” said Isaac, before he yelped at the sting of hand landing across his bare bottom, then a second in quick succession. He felt the hot breath of Scott's words glide over his earlobe, “Would you rather I went in dry?” There was no hint of a Scottish accent anymore.

Scott stuck a finger slowly into him. He twisted it a bit, then pulled out and coated a second finger in cream before re-entering him. He could hear Isaac's breaths deepen but fall in rhythm with the circular motion of his fingers opening him up. He coated himself in the last of the moisturizer pooled in his palm and pushed into Isaac slowly. Isaac grunted.

“That's it,” Scott muttered soothingly. "Easy does it.” He wrapped his fingers, mess and all, in Isaac's curled locks as he started to ride him, slowly.  
“You're going to miss this when you're gone, aren't you?” he said.  
“Not as much as you,” Isaac gasped.  
“What?” Scott asked, as he gently pulled back Isaac's head, leaning down so his ear was level with Isaac's mouth.  
“Yes,” said Isaac.  
“Yes, what?” Scott insisted, tightening his grip on his hair.  
“Yes, I'm going to miss it,” Isaac.  
“Mhmmmm,” Scott affirmed as he released his grip.  
His thrusts got harder, faster. He had worked himself comfortably in. The friction of his member sliding forward and then back was gone; it was smooth and effortless. Then it came suddenly, and Scott arched his back as he unloaded himself into Isaac, his gasp at the release uncontrollable and unsubdued. Isaac sighed, as Scott's movements slowed. Scott noticed.  
“Not yet,” he said. The sound of a small pop came as he pulled out, his cock steel-hard and bouncing in the air, drizzling what little cum hadn't been deposited into Isaac's hole. He leaned down and pulled the trousers and underwear completely free of Isaac's feet, and flipped him over, raising Isaac's legs resting them on his shoulders.  
Isaac moaned as he felt Scott's head breach his ring, then stop. He looked up.  
“I need to make sure you're nice and full before you leave,” said Scott, his face framed by Isaac's pale legs. Scott took hold of Isaac's throbbing member, the residue of the moisturizer coating his palm lubricating it a little as he began to pump him. He could see the tension in Isaac's neck melt as he laid his head fully back and resigned himself to receiving it all.  
The second time Scott emptied himself into Isaac took less time than the first. He propped himself on the bed with his hands, breathing heavily. Isaac's legs remained suspended in the air, his feet intertwined behind Scott's head. Scott didn't let up in his efforts on Isaac. He could tell that the cadence of his hand against Isaac's cock was quickly building him up to orgasm. It was close now, any second, and Scott dared to move his hand up and swirl his palm over the head, within seconds of climax. Then he stopped.  
“Hey!?” cried Isaac as Scott stepped away, his head ducking under Isaac's legs.  
“You didn't cum?” asked Scott rhetorically.  
“Does it look like it?” Isaac said, looking down at his throbbing cock, pulsing and erect.  
“Shame,” Scott shrugged as he flipped Isaac over again. He entered him a third time. He was already satisfied. This go-around was just for the hell of it. He began to work himself in again, leaning down so he was parallel with Isaac's back.  
“I forbid you from cumming when not in my presence. Is that understood?” he whispered into Isaac's ear.  
“But we might not see each other for a while!” Isaac moaned, “Please at least let me cum before I leave!”  
“No,” said Scott, gripping the back of Isaac's head again. “Let this be a little incentive for you to figure out the Seattle-to-Portland bus schedule.”  
Scott released his hold on Isaac's head which fell back down onto the mattress. He continued pumping to the muffled sound of Isaac whining in frustration into the comforter.  
A few minutes later and Scott unlocked the cuffs from Isaac's wrists and they took a shower together. This time, Scott didn't mind if it was a long one. He was too distracted by the enjoyment of soaping Isaac up and down, with the occasional, accidental brush of a wash cloth against Isaac's still inflamed member.

A few hours later and Scott was saying goodbye to Isaac, clean and re-dressed, as he tossed his bags into the back of Chris Argent's SUV. Scott gave him a hug. “Call me,” Isaac said.  
“But how?” Scott asked, confused.  
“Priscilla's Blackberry, the one that's specially encrypted. She brought a bunch of them. They're in kitchen. Danny's been handing them out and keeping a record of who had what phone and their numbers. But here's mine,” he said, as he handed a scrap of paper folded over to Scott. He'd penciled it on, above a heart and an “XOXO.” Scott refolded it and put it in his pocket.  
“I'm going to miss you,” he said.  
“Not as much as I'm going to miss you,” Isaac replied. The corner of Scott's mouth tugged upwards a little.  
“Scott,” said a deep, serious voice.  
“Mr Argent,” Scott replied, offering his hand, trying his best to sound as down-to-business and happiness-deprived as the older man.  
“It's been a pleasure. Thank you for traveling all this way and introducing us to your charming friend. Have a safe trip back to Washington,” Scott said.  
“You're welcome any time,” said Chris, as he lightly slapped Scott's shoulder. Scott wondered if he meant it.  
“We'd better hit the road,” Argent said as he walked towards the driver's door.  
Isaac got into the SUV, and it was then that Scott noticed on the other side of the vehicle Kira who leaned forward so she could see him. She waved her hand, but not with great enthusiasm. Her face made him think she was unhappy. He hadn't seen anything of her the whole time she was there. He wondered what was up. He made a mental note to tell Isaac to make sure she was okay.

Isaac's didn't say anything else. He just looked at Scott, then dropped his eyes to the ground. He seemed to shrink a little, as if accepting that he was leaving again. He reached over, and closed the door of the SUV. It made a dull, heavy thud. Scott watched as the vehicle rolled down the drive. No one had bothered to close the gate after the attack. He held his hand in the air, a final goodbye. Whether anyone looked back to see was obscured by the deep tint of the SUV's windows.


	9. Stiles and Derek

Stiles sat on an enormous boulder planted at the edge of a field dotted with similarly large rocks. They were gray, smooth, titanic: outcasts of some long-ago volcanic fury which spat them into the forest to lay solemnly, memorials to their own exodus among the living breaths of the pine needles and grass blades.

Stiles didn't think about the ancient story of the rocks. For him, the boulders were just a convenient place to reflect: natural towers of self-imposed solitude to sate his recent ascetic impulses. It had been almost a month since the end of that meeting in the Arizona woods. Now he was in a different woods, back in California. It was not far, in fact, from Frenchman Lake, where he and Derek had gone, after they'd abandoned the man who had tried to kill him at the motel in Reno.

The pensive, neutral face he wore was broken by an occasional frown. He hadn't come here to think good or bad thoughts. He'd actually come here to think nothing, but that, it seemed, was not working. 

It had been so short a time for so much to change in a life. Part of it was out of his control, and he'd had to live a litany of abuses: an exploding car, a forced interstate flight, an assault with a knife, and getting shot. Yet, now the hard part about life, Stiles realized, was of his own choosing. That's what made it hard. 

He remembered back to the night he hunted moon flowers with Deaton and Maria. Deaton had warned him that the path wasn't easy. Stiles supposed he was grateful for that warning, though he wasn't sure how much good it had done him to hear it. It's one thing to be told how deep a pool is. It's another when you're deep down at the bottom, when the body says panic, I can't breathe, and you look up, and the water line is just far enough you don't know if you'll break its surface like a dolphin or driftwood.

_What am I doing?_ he thought. Maria and Deaton had told him to take a walk at first. Then, they'd told him to take many walks. They'd told him to breathe in everything around him. They'd told him to listen: listen to the rocks, the trees, the dirt, the sky, the birds. They said that eventually, he'd hear each of them whisper, and then he'd know what to whisper back. _This is bullshit_ , thought Stiles, still sitting on the boulder. He was getting fed up. He already knew how to listen. All of this was stupid and moreover, it was a waste of time. On top of it all, he was away from Derek, and he was wandering around the woods like an idiot, unable to help in any way. He was driftwood, and he didn't want to be.

While he and Derek had officially moved to San Francisco as a couple, Stiles certainly hadn't felt like he'd truly moved there himself. He'd spent almost all of his time out here, in the woods, with Deaton and Maria. Still, Stiles had seen the new digs in the city.

Derek, Danny, and Stiles had all gone to stay with the San Francisco pack, invited by Thomas, the young, shy pack leader from the meeting. Up until they'd arrived, Stiles had never met Thomas, and knew nothing about him since he hadn't been at the meeting. It would have been fair to say, though, that none of them really knew much about him. Scott, however, had taken the time to chat with him after the convention's conclusion, and he'd detected something good about him as he'd listened to him speak. He'd told Derek there was potential for cooperation there. Derek took his advice.

The townhouse they stayed in was quite nice, really. It was on the edge of the city, in an albeit not-so-great neighborhood, but it had space, and most importantly, the people in the area tended not to call the cops. The roughness of the area was something that Stiles had noticed right away, though it didn't seem to concern anyone else. Then again, like the neighbors, werewolves didn't really call the cops either.

Spacious as it was, the townhouse felt crowded with the addition of several guests suddenly taking up residence. Derek and the others knew they couldn't stay too long before inevitably stepping on someone's toes, no matter how careful they were.  
“Where should we look for a place?” Stiles remembered Derek asking Thomas a couple days into their stay.  
“I'm not really sure what's out there,” he'd said, “I haven't been looking since we found this place. You're more than welcome here, though. Don't feel you need to leave any time soon. We're happy to have you.”  
“That's kind, and we appreciate it. But we should start looking in the meantime. Anything around in the area you might have noticed by chance? Any for sale signs?” Derek had asked.  
“Well, actually, the lady in the townhouse next door talks all the time about how bad the neighborhood's gotten and that she'd like to move,” said Thomas, “If you'd like, I could introduce you. She actually seems to like me,” he said shrugging his shoulders, “Maybe you could make her an offer.”

Ten days later they had a new place. Stiles had only seen it briefly. Between that time and the move into the neighboring townhome, he hadn't been in San Francisco. He'd been with Deaton and Maria. He'd gone back, just the once, in the last three-and-a-half weeks, and just for a day. Not feeling involved was part of what was hard for him, but more so than anything, he missed Derek. 

When he'd gone back he'd helped them move into the new place. It had three bedrooms already furnished. It may have been new to them, but it certainly didn't feel new. It had felt like they were staying at a grandmother's house, and what was more, with the grandmother eerily absent. The walls were papered in various old-lady prints, floral mostly. The sight of Derek in a bathrobe, looking well at home with a cup of tea while standing next to a curio filled with Royal Doulton figurines was something else entirely.

Derek had caught Stiles glancing warily at him in that surreal moment.  
“What?” he'd asked.  
“Nothing,” Stiles replied, shaking his head and grinning, before pretending to see something interesting out the window so as to avert his gaze.

Stiles didn't realize it as he was sitting on the rock, remembering that moment, but he was grinning then too. He gave a soft sigh, letting the air out of his lungs, as if resigned to the fact that the memory was over, as his concentration drifted towards the present. The sounds of the birds chirping, the leaves dancing in a soft breeze, the occasional flap of wings, announcing the Arrivals and Departures of some fowl, some pheasant, _Bird Airlines- Every Seat is the Captain's Chair_ , Stiles mused, before shaking his head at how silly he sounded, _What am I doing here?_

He could smell the tea now, far away, as it wafted over from the campsite. He'd learned to recognize the smell, and even learned to enjoy it. He'd never really cared for the drink. He'd always thought tea was too weak, that it tasted like water that inexplicably made his mouth feel drier after drinking it. But some of the teas that Maria and Deaton made were good, and they made lots of different types. The three drank it several times a day: in the morning, the late afternoon, and the evening. The whole thing became almost like ritual to him: the water heating over the fire, the preparation of the herbs, the pouring of the tea. It was a process that led him not to wait for some obvious taste or flavor to confront him, but instead for him to seek it out, respectfully, in a small cup of hued hot water.

Maria always selected the herbs, and there was an interesting variety. Stiles had only asked once and a while what kind she was making. Usually the answer was straightforward, revolving around a few different herbs, “Sage,” or “Hibiscus,” or, “Chamomile,” or “Dandelion,” were some of the usual responses. Stiles made sure to start asking every time, though, after their trip to visit the new townhouse. 

He remembered how they'd arrived and while Derek was giving Deaton and Stiles a tour, Maria had used the kitchen to make a special tea on the stove top, which she'd poured into a large mason jar. She'd left it on the kitchen counter and eventually stored it in the fridge next to a Tupperware container into which she'd poured some rum over a tea ball.

The next day, after having helped to move in and install a fair amount of electronics Derek had ordered delivered (thank you Internet), the trio prepared to head back. Maria grabbed the jar from the fridge, filling it almost to the top with the contents of the Tupperware container, including the tea ball. Then, she shoveled in some ice, and wrapped it in a kitchen towel before placing it in her bag. Stiles hadn't thought anything of it at the time when Derek asked her what she had made and Maria had responded "Lavamint tea", to which Derek had shaken his head and grinned, “Suppose you didn't leave any for me?”

“Make your own, _pendejo_ ,” she'd replied, before reaching up into one of the cabinets and pulling out the bottle of rum. “And this I take as payment for my moving services,” she said, swishing the bottle around by the neck, before deftly dropping it into her satchel. 

Stiles remembered very specifically their return to the campsite. They'd come back clean, fresh. A proper shower had made him feel human again. Stiles had noticed when they'd first set up camp that his clothes were almost immediately permeated by smoke from the campfire. Later, it was the norm, and he didn't notice anymore. But as he'd walked out of the shower in the new townhouse, he noticed the smell of the burnt leaves and wood which had meandered into the weave of his shirt, the denim of his jeans, the wool fibers of his touk. A quick wash and a dryer cloth had made them right again. He remembered how he'd rolled his eyes in helpless frustration as Deaton re-lit the campfire on their return. Time to smell like a forest fire again.

Their return was also memorable for another reason. Maria had pulled the jar out of her bag and unwrapped the towel, which was damp from the condensation caused by the ice. She put it on the ground and bent over to unscrew the lid, motioning to Deaton for some cups.  
“Only two?” she asked, as he handed them to her.  
“You know I rarely imbibe,” Deaton responded.

Maria shrugged and poured some of the iced-tea into the two cups, handing one to Stiles. He took it and put it up to his lips, taking a sip. Hmm, he thought, not bad.  
“What's in this?” he'd asked Maria, who herself had taken a much larger swig.  
“Lavender and Peppermint, for the most part,” she said winking, raising her cup.  
“Oh,” Stiles said, “I thought maybe it was called Lavamint because the mint was cool to counter the warmth of the liquor,” he explained. He gave a quick tilt of his head, then proceeded to take another larger sip.  


The three of them had been sitting around, talking about the time that Deaton had rescued Maria from a particularly hazardous situation in Mexico when she'd found herself the target of a drug cartel.

“There I was,” Maria had started, “I went down to a town near Delicias, in Chihuahua, near where I grew up,” she started. Stiles finished the last of his cup and put it on the ground, clasping his hands together and resting his elbows on his knees, leaning forward in expectation of the story.

“A friend of mine called me,” Maria continued, “It was Padre Juan. He said one of his parishioners, a poor farmer, was being threatened by the narcotraficantes,” she replied.

“Why?” asked Stiles.

“Lots of farmers grow marijuana to supplement their income in rural Mexico,” interjected Deaton. “They sell it to the cartels who pay them pennies on the dollar compared to what it sells for in the United States.”

“And this farmer, Padre Juan's parishioner, decided he didn't want to do it anymore,” Maria continued. “The prices had fallen in the United States, and suddenly, his crop was worth less when it came time to harvest and sell to the cartel. So he tells them not to bother coming back next time. He won't have anything for them. The narcos were not happy. They told him, like they told everyone else, he had to keep growing.”

“Well, that make sense for them to stop growing, from an economic point of view,” said Stiles, thinking about Coach, “If they ease back on supply, it's a natural reaction to a reduction in demand.”  
“First of all,” Deaton interjected, “Just because economists think in economic terms, doesn't mean the people actually driving the economy do.” He put down the small circle of beads he'd been holding. “Second of all, in this particular case, this cartel was also thinking strategically. They aimed to reduce the supply in the market... just not theirs.”  
“Oh,” said Stiles, looking down at the dirt.  
“Yeah, they have a different definition of cutting out the competition,” Deaton said.  
“So what happened?” Stiles asked, curious now.

“ _Los narcos_ don't take no for an answer,” said Maria, “At first it was friendly between them and the people in the area. It was poor there. It still is. The government wasn't going to do anything about it, and the narcos offered a way to make a little extra money on the side- just grow some plants along with whatever they're growing anyway, and sell it to them for some cash. But something changed. They got greedy at the expense of the people who were supplying them. People were starting to dislike them, but they didn't dare say anything.”  
“Except Padre Juan,” Stiles interjected.  
“Except Padre Juan,” Maria confirmed. “Padre Juan was not one of those strict Catholic priests," Maria said, "He knew how to party and celebrate the first miracle of Jesus. But he also saw the bigger picture of the drug trade: how it was hurting people in Mexico, how the cartels were growing more violent, how in the States, the government was sending millions to jail. He wasn't opposed to personal consumption, but he was to participation in that morbid economy. He held his tongue, though, until Felipe, I think his name was, the farmer in any case, and then some others, started to complain. Then he called me from the Diocese to help, so I went.” Maria patted her hands rapidly up and down on her legs to imitate the sound of rapid footsteps, as if she were running down to meet Padre Juan.

“How did he know you? Were you part of his parish?” asked Stiles.  
Maria laughed, “No, he was young, not yet a priest before I left. Our families have known each other a long time. Padre Juan was also known as _El Rubio_ , The Blond. All his family was light-skinned, fair-haired. They had come from Germany close to the end of the 1800s, and they were welcome and productive and liked. But during the revolution, the Villistas drove them out. They didn't like them. They used them as scapegoats for anything that went wrong. Conveniently they had good lands they'd bought and made rich and fertile. I'm sure it had nothing to do with the revolutionaries kicking them out. My grandfather helped them relocate, not far, and kept the Villistas away. Our families have been connected ever since.”

“So what did you do?” Stiles asked, “Did you go down there and take care of business?” asked Stiles.

“I went down there, and Padre Juan and I led a group of peasants up the top of a mountain after we convinced them to rip their plants from the ground. Then we set fire to it all.” Maria blew out hard, making a wooshing sound as she raised her arms into the air, emulating a ball of smoke issuing up into the sky.

Stiles was starting to feel warm, like the fire he'd imagined burning defiantly at the top of some mountain in Mexico. It surely was the rum in the tea, as it felt like it came from inside of him, not from the actual fire around which they sat. The effect seemed a little more pronounced than usual. His head was buzzing a bit too. Maria must have made it strong. It was at that moment that Stiles remembered something curious, though. Deaton had said he didn't imbibe often, but Stiles had seen him on numerous occasions with a glass of wine, or a beer.

“Sorry Maria,” Stiles interrupted, “Just one thing,” he pointed his finger at Deaton in an accusing fashion. “What do you mean you don't imbibe? I've seen you drink tons of times.”  
Deaton looked at him coolly, his face placid as it was in almost every circumstance. “I do drink, I just don't ingest marijuana, except on very special occasions.”  
“Wait what?!?,” Stiles exclaimed, his mouth hanging open, looking alternatively from Deaton to Maria. “Is that what you meant by lavender and mint _mostly_?” he gaped.  
“There's lemon and honey in it too, not that you noticed,” said Maria indignantly as she pulled a bag of Doritos out of her satchel.  
“Are you seriously eating a bag of Doritos right now?” Stiles asked. _Did she drug me? Does this count as drugging someone?_ Stiles interrogated himself in a somewhat panicked state.

“Yeah,” said Maria nonchalantly.  
Stiles was disarmed. He was taking it all in. It was like a tsunami of information. The story, the tea, the Doritos....The Doritos in their shiny foil bag, all crinkly and Cool Ranch-y.  
“Can I have one?” he squeaked.

Maria looked at him momentarily, incredulously. “No,” she said, lifting a triangle-shaped chip into the air, “These are sacred.” She put the bag down and made the sign of the cross in front of the chip, muttering mockingly something that sounded like _en el nombre del padre..._ before devouring the thing in front of Stiles' heartbroken face. 

“Why don't you tell Stiles the rest of the story?” Deaton suggested to Maria, as he snatched the bag of chips and tossed it to Stiles.

“Oh yes, the story,” Maria said distractedly, before wiping the chip dust off her hands. “The smoke from the fire lifted high into the heavens- and rode the wind. All the villages to the south smelled it, and the closest ones could see the fire on the mountain, dancing beneath the black cloud, a smoke signal like no one had ever seen. It didn't take long before the narcos showed up in their Jeeps, informed by who-knows-who among the many, many people who had seen what we had done.”

“I bet they were pissed,” said Stiles, having already forgotten earlier.

“That would be an understatement. They showed up, two Jeeps. Their leader started demanding answers, and everyone was too afraid to say anything. They all cowered, silent, instead. But not Padre Juan. He took from the big wooden cross the peasants had constructed, the large gold cross from the church, which they'd hung around it. He held it in front of him with both hands, as he approached the narcos,” Maria held out her hands, as if she herself were holding a cross in front of her.

“The narco leader was a hothead. Most of them were, but he was exceptionally so. Typical of middle management,” Maria commented off-handedly. “He pulled a pistol from his jacket and demanded to know just what Padre Juan thought he was doing. All the waving of his hand, the yelling, he looked like a fool next to Padre Juan who stood tall, unafraid, behind his cross. He waited until the narco had finished his rant, before replying calmly, and I'll never forget the words he said: 'Only God and _El Pueblo_ will reap from this land now.'”

“What did he say?” asked Stiles on edge, “What did the drug runner say?”

“Nothing,” said Maria, “He shot him.”  
Stiles gasped, unbelieving.  
“But the bullet hit the cross Padre Juan held, and it bounced off, hitting the narco, himself, in the chest. He fell to the ground, and his friends got scared. They drew back, and got in their Jeeps. All except one- A young man, probably the youngest, a boy, really. He was nervous, no doubt traumatized by the cartel from his initiation. I suppose he had something to prove,” Maria mused. “He pulled his gun and pointed it at Padre Juan. I will never forget the moment between when I asked myself if he'd do it and when he did. Padre Juan's body fell to the ground and his spirit left.”

Stiles was shocked. It was not the kind of thing one would ever read in a newspaper or in a history book. It was a story one had to hear from the mouth of someone who saw it, who had been present in an impossibly surreal moment. But for Maria it was not surreal, only some long-gone reality that lingered. Stiles didn't know what to say. He wasn't sure he was supposed to say anything, but he did. He was too curious not to.

“What...” started Stiles.  
“What happened then?” anticipated Maria, “Everyone who was gathered there moved forward, not believing what had happened. They moved slowly, like a sea tide rising, and the young man fled when he'd realized what he'd done. The villagers took Padre Juan's body down the mountain, but I remained to gather some of the red dirt around where he had fallen. The narcos had noticed me, and I knew they would be back. I was already known to them in that area.

I went to the inn, the only one in town. I shut myself into my little room for the night. I had called Deaton from the town pay phone. He hadn't picked up. I wasn't sure if he'd gotten my message, but I hoped. It was all I could do.

I remember a knock on the door. I thought they had come for me, but I opened it anyway. I didn't care anymore. The frail entry meant nothing between me and a boot. But it was not the narcos. It was the village elder. He gave me the cross Padre Juan had been holding. I don't to this day know why he gave it to me. We never spoke, then, or after. I gave him the one that was around my neck, a crucifix of wood. It was humble, not a fair trade for something so precious, but he seemed grateful when he took it. He left. I don't think he knew why I gave it to him. I don't think I know either,” Maria said. Her eyes followed the curls of smoke issuing from the fire, just until they disappeared from sight into the dusk-light air.

“That wasn't your only visitor that night, was it?” asked Deaton, breaking Maria's far-off gaze.  
“Ay, no,” she said, shaking her head. She took on a different look, even a different persona.

She turned back to Stiles. The look in her eye terrified him. It was a look of rage, unspoken and undirected, ready to cull anything in its way.  
“I went to sleep. It took me quickly, and I dreamed of darkness,” she said all of the sudden.  
He watched, again on edge, as she paused. A tear pooled in her eye, trembling against the lower-lid which barely managed to hold it back. The water held its form, and there on that precarious perch, it seemed to be something between liquid and solid: the sap-like rage of a viscous, sour-sweet contempt, muddled with regret and the promise of a revenge still yet delivered. 

“I knew they were coming for me,” she said, “I relished the thought of sticking them,” She slid her finger across the flat of the knife she'd produced unconsciously from her boot, “I dreamed of it.” “I would eat their hearts out of their breasts given the chance. If they only showed themselves again, I would end them all, like a terror.”

Stiles glanced at Deaton, who only looked into the fire, who didn't say anything, who didn't give any sign of shock, or sympathy, or disapproval, for what she'd said. And Maria continued.

“I woke up to the sound of an approaching motor. It closed in slowly, and I could hear it idle for a moment before it turned off. The woman who ran the inn came to my room a minute later, and told me I had a visitor. Who could it be?” Maria asked rhetorically, “There were only so many answers, and not many of them good. But into the light of the doorway stepped the young man from the mountain top who had shot Padre Juan.”

“What did you do?” asked Stiles.  
“Nothing, at first,” Maria replied. “I thought about all the things, the violent things I wanted to do to him. I thought about the vase on the bedside table that would look perfect broken over his head. I thought about the satisfaction of grabbing hold of his collar and slamming him into a wall, over and over, like a worthless doll. I imagined that if I were lucky, the stain of his hot blood on the plaster would form a vision, a portrait of Padre, or perhaps of some other poor innocent, dispatched at the hands of this _desgraciado_ and his friends. Maybe that portrait could gaze out to witness my vengeance.”

Maria was drawing circles in the dirt. No elaborate design was forming, just circles and swirls. “I didn't do any of that, though,” she said after a pause, “He was sorry. I could tell. It was in his eyes and it was sincere,” she said as she sighed. “He could have gone home, whatever kind of home he had, with his narco buddies, and there he would have been a hero. He would have been celebrated. Maybe even a boss would come to shake his hand, notice him, and keep him in the back of his mind for a promotion, whenever _his_ boss got promoted, or died in a fight, or was murdered by management.” Maria stopped tracing in the ground, “But he didn't go home. He came to me.”

“What did he say?” Stiles asked, “Why would he risk doing that?”  
“Who can say what made him change his mind? What made him suddenly abhor his ways? Something changed his heart,” she said.  
“But how could you trust him?” Stiles asked. “How can you trust someone who does something like that?”  
“Trust?” scoffed Maria, “I didn't trust him for a minute. But there was something good in him yet. It's hard to say whether a person can be separated from his actions. In this case, he tried, himself, to do it. He didn't ask a court to weigh whether he was truly evil, whether he could be redeemed. He made a harder choice: to seek out the negative consequences for something that should have been, in his world, a noble thing.”  
Maria again looked off, as if remembering it all in front of her eyes, “'You need to go,' that's what he said,” Maria whispered, “And just seconds after he said that, the inn keeper came running to warn me. She said, 'Maria, there are trucks coming over the ridge!.'”

“I left with only the cross and my bag. I had not unpacked. As I tried to make my way out the door, he grabbed my arm. His grip was strong, not something that could be explained by how bony his hands were, maybe by desperation. 'What do I do?' I remember he asked me. I knew he didn't mean about the narcos heading towards us. No, he meant about what he had done.”  
I told him that Padre Juan had run the orphanage attached to the church. That now those children had lost the only father they had. I told him that an emptiness had been created, and that nature has a way of moving towards that which requires, and away from that which has too much. The problem with nature, though” said Maria, “Is that often it's a crap shoot to know what will fill the void first. Better him than the narcos.”  
“What did he do?” Stiles asked.  
“I don't know,” Maria replied, “I have not been back there since.” She sighed, thinking about places lost to the past.

There was silence, until Deaton broke it.  
“Aren't you going to tell the rest of the story?” he asked.  
“Hmm?” asked Maria distractedly, “Oh,” she said suddenly realizing she'd left out a part.  
Deaton wasn't having it, though, “Never mind, I'll tell it,” he said.  
“Because it's all about you?” asked Maria teasingly.  
“Because you're waxing nostalgic and I've heard the story before,” he replied dismissively.

He turned to Stiles, looking as if he were ready to turn on story-telling mode,  
“There I was,” he began, pulling his hands away from one other, as if they were parting a curtain.  
“The call came from Maria. She was in trouble. I had been living in Las Cruces at the time, working at the university there,” he explained.  
“Wait, you used to live in Mexico too?” asked Stiles.  
“No, New Mexico,” Deaton corrected him, before pausing, “Or, Old Mexico, depending on your perspective.”  
He shook his head to clear it of the distraction, “Immediately when I got the call, I flew to Delicias.”  
“Like how Maria did at the ranch?” Stiles asked, his head crooked to one side.  
“No,” Deaton laughed, I used to have my own plane, actually, a Cessna Turboprop. When Maria said she was in trouble, I headed to the airfield, jumped in, and headed down there.”  
“I didn't fly at the ranch,” Maria interrupted.  
“Well, that night I flew,” Deaton said sternly, as if to say she was being rude, and that her commentary was neither here-nor-there.  
Maria didn't respond, and Deaton continued, “I flew low, and crossed the border, heading South. Eventually, as I neared the town, which was frankly, not exactly a beacon of light, I noticed a convoy of headlights approaching, but still a little ways off. Still, I knew we didn't have much time. Maria had told me that the church would be the most brightly lit building in the town, and that it sat on the highway running East-West through its center. I saw the church, banked and aligned myself heading West towards the town. I made out the highway with the plane's headlights, and touched down on it. Not a car in sight on this side of town. I taxied the plane down the road toward the church and when I finally got close, I shot a flare out of the window, high up into the sky to announce my arrival, and I turned the plane around, pointing it towards where I'd just come from.”  
“I knew it was him. It could only be him,” Maria added.  
“I waited only a minute, and Maria appeared, running. The beams of the truck headlights were beginning to breach the curve of the hill before the center of town,” Deaton said.  
“I made it though,” Maria said.  
“Yeah, giving us just enough time to take off from a potholed rural highway while getting shot at,” Deaton said sarcastically.  
Stiles felt the need all of the sudden to appeal to calm. He'd never seen nor wanted to see them come to words, and he wasn't sure Deaton was entirely kidding.  
“Well, at least you made it out okay,” Stiles reassured Deaton.  
“Unlike my plane,” said Deaton tersely, his accusatory eyes slowly shifting towards Maria.  
“What happened to the plane?” asked Stiles, who at first was looking at Deaton before being distracted by Maria's head rapidly swiveling back and forth.  
“Well I guess if you shoot at something enough, you'll eventually hit it. In this case, they managed to puncture a fuel line,” said Deaton, “We were bleeding fuel before we even got in the sky,” he explained, “We got out about thirty miles before I noticed how quickly the fuel gauge was going down.”  
“What did you do?” Stiles asked.  
“Nothing I could do. Throttle back and let her ride,” Deaton said, “I put her down in the desert, about fifty miles from the border.”  
“You crash landed in the Mexican desert?” Stiles asked.  
“All landings are a crash. It's just a question of how controlled they are. No fuel is just one more thing to lose control over. But we glided in and made it. It was bumpy, but we made it.”  
“How did you get back?” asked Stiles.

“Maybe a story for another day,” suggested Maria.  
“Hmmm,” Deaton said, “We met a friend of Maria's who took us to the border and we crossed back over. But anyway, that's how I lost my plane,” he ended abruptly.  
“And that's also what insurance is for,” said Maria cheerfully.  
“Yes,” said Deaton tensely, “Insurance companies love to hear how you clandestinely piloted your plane outside of FAA and international regulations across a border, and then how you used a highway as a landing strip, before getting shot at by narco traffickers. That's what really gets them to write the checks."  
“And that's why we reported it as stolen,” responded Maria matter-of-factly.  
“Yeah, the report noted that the apparent drug runner who stole my plane had an affinity for Twix and M &M trail mix, and that the chocolate covered nearly everything in the plane,” Deaton noted bitterly. “I'd just replaced the upholstery,” he said as he shook his head.  
“You got your money, didn't you?” asked Maria rhetorically, “You know when you're with Maria, she makes it rain.”  
Deaton stared at her with an expression that Stiles could only interpret as, “I hate you so much sometimes.”  
Maria and Deaton continued to stare at one another, until Maria, probably because she felt guilty, averted her eyes. At that point she noticed Stiles was missing. He'd sneaked off without a word, or maybe he hadn't. Maybe she had just been distracted.

“It helps him listen, the tea,” Maria said to Deaton.  
“Perhaps,” said Deaton, gazing at the place where Stiles had been sitting.  
__

Derek had been restless in his new townhouse despite being distracted by all of the activity surrounding the move-in and the subsequent keeping-up with everything going on. Stiles, Scott, Peter, everyone and everything was moving in one direction or another, and it was difficult to keep up. He'd been cataloging it all, though. It was something he'd learned to do thanks to Stiles.  
They had had problems in their relationship when it came to communication. Mostly it was a lack of words on Derek's part. No surprise there. Stiles had offered up a suggestion that his therapist had given him for his anxiety and ADD: use a journal. Derek had thought it might be a good idea, and it seemed to work. He felt free to say what he wanted, or at least, to write what he wanted anyway. The journal didn't judge him, and Stiles promised never to read it should he come across the book. Derek believed him, though he kept it hidden anyway.

Journal Entry-Week 3, Day 5:  
Tomorrow I leave for Portland. I'm meeting Scott outside the city to talk before the next Folkmoot. I need to get him away from Peter so we can talk without worrying about being overheard. I've kept in communication with him, of course, by Blackberry. I hate those damn things, but they are a lifeline. Scott's texts are usually brief and vague. I need more details to put the pieces together. I hope there are more to be had. He seems to think Peter has been focusing most of his time on organizing the werewolf packs at a regional level instead of trying to stop PsyNex. It's a strategy with a little more long-term planning, but maybe fruitful. I'd prefer something a little sooner rather than later. We'll see.

Derek put down his pen and leaned back in his chair, reflecting on what he'd written. He looked down at his Blackberry, that thing he hated so much. It let him keep in touch with everyone, but never let them truly be in touch. It was all so deeply impersonal, if still efficacious.

He scrolled through the text messages he'd received over the last few weeks. The majority were from Scott, then from Isaac, then Peter, Chris, then Stiles. Stiles of all people texted with him the least. The day he'd come back with Deaton and Maria, Derek had mentioned that Stiles had been awfully quiet, that he hadn't heard much from him. Stiles didn't really say much in reply. He shrugged his shoulders, hands buried in his pockets, “Just been busy. Reception's not great where we are.” Derek didn't push it, but the terse response pricked at the terse-himself werewolf.

The night that Stiles stayed over they'd made love. The worries that Derek had about Stiles' distant behavior dissipated somewhat, contradicted by the clear passion he'd felt as Stiles' hips pushed back against him, begging him to continue and go deeper. It was too real, too honest to be faked, and Derek felt guilty for even thinking Stiles would feign something like that. Maybe it was the fact that they were alone, in Derek's bedroom, in their bedroom, that made Stiles feel safe, able to relax and express himself. Derek wished that four walls and a door made him feel that way too. He was just as worried about everything happening, maybe more so than Stiles, but he tried not to show it. Somehow he suspected Stiles didn't buy his act, but he hoped the others did.

Derek felt guilty about something he'd done after Stiles, Deaton, and Maria left. He felt rather silly, in fact, for feeling that way, considering many of the things he'd chosen to do over the years. He cut a rectangular hole through the wall shared by Thomas' townhouse and the one Derek had rented from the old woman who went to live with her sister in Arizona. They made a door out of it, preserving the wallpaper and the wood paneling that ran across the bottom third. They added hinges and a door knob.  
_She is going to be pissed_ , Derek thought. Dawn, a wolf in Thomas' pack, had installed it all. She had assured Derek they could always restore it, make it look almost like it never happened. When she was done, Derek noted that she'd cut it so precisely that it looked, on a glance, like a normal wall with a random door handle protruding from it.

Despite his misgivings (he had a soft spot for sweet old ladies), Derek still thought it a good idea. The less visibility, the better, and a direct door between the two houses was better than going in and out through the front doors. People would quickly start to wonder why there was always so much activity between the two houses. There was no need to invite attention, and besides, it was nice to be a little closer to the other pack. It was, after all, just Derek and Danny in the three bedroom house. Derek didn't mind, of course. Danny was pleasant enough. He cooked amazingly well, and shared Derek's penchant for high-quality cuisine, something reflected in the unusually large bills for grocery deliveries that Derek paid every week. Danny, Derek noted, didn't seem to mind the new door much either.

Derek had noticed Danny and Thomas seemed to have it it off right from the start. Thomas was not exactly the spitting image of Danny, by any means. But Danny, who always had seemed the type to go for guys who looked more like him than less, seemed nevertheless to have taken a shine to him. At first, Derek couldn't tell if Danny was just having a nerd crush. They seemed, after all, to have bonded right away over computers and technology. Thomas had an impressive set-up in his room. Danny had asked Derek if it might be alright to use the third bedroom in their own house as a computer room- a sort of tech center, similar to the basement at the ranch. Derek gave the go-ahead, “Just leave a bed in there for when we have guests,” he'd said. “They can just stay in my room,” offered Danny, “I'll probably be sleeping in the computer room more often than not anyway.”

It didn't take long before Thomas was bringing his laptop over to join Danny. The bandwidth for the Internet connection Danny asked to have installed was outrageously expensive, but also outrageously fast. Derek remembered when the technician came. He'd looked at the order on his clipboard and gave a pause, and then an approving nod, as if he figured Derek to be an okay guy. Derek did his best to feign some sort of technological knowledge as the install man started talking shop with him, rattling off acronyms and trade terms far beyond Derek's comprehension.

Danny and Thomas had been working on a project together. It started to coalesce only a few days prior, or at least that was when Derek was made aware that it was all coming together. Derek had been in the main room, sitting on the couch doing research on PsyNex. Thomas was over, as usual. He was upstairs with Danny. Normally it was quiet. The two didn't make too much noise, except the occasional sound of laughter that would echo down the stairwell. What they were laughing about, Derek had no idea. He could, of course, listen in with his wolf hearing if he'd wanted to, but he didn't care too much- It was probably a joke he wouldn't get anyhow.

This time, however, the two upstairs made noises of a different kind. There wasn't much laughing, but there was the rhythmic thumping of wood against wall that lasted a good while. Derek rolled his eyes at the distraction and returned his attention to his laptop. The sound stopped. Several minutes later Danny descended.  
“I'm going to get started on dinner,” he said, “Thomas will be joining us.”  
“What time?” asked Derek distractedly.  
“Should be about an hour-and-a-half,” Danny replied, as he donned an apron.  
“Make sure to wash your hands,” Derek replied flatly.

Later on, Derek, Danny, and Thomas were gathered around the table. _I guess it's dinner for three now_ , Derek thought, as he speared some Brussels sprouts with his fork. _I hate Brussels sprouts_.  
“Is everything okay?” asked Danny, noticing Derek's pouting.  
“Yes,” Derek responded glumly.  
“Do you not like Brussels sprouts?” Danny asked concerned.  
“No, they're delicious,” Derek reassured him.

“We're almost done with the attacks we're going to launch against PsyNex,” said Thomas, upbeat and optimistic. Danny nodded his head, confirming.

“Give us another couple of days. It'll be ready,” Danny added.

“What do these attacks do?” asked Derek, “And please, dumb it down for me.”

“Basically,” started Thomas, “We have a code which we are seeding into thousands of computers through a malware program that Danny designed. It's a tactic called denial-of-service. It coordinates all the infected computers to start requesting information from the PsyNex website, overwhelming their bandwidth and knocking out their online presence. The code's written, it's just a question of getting it distributed to enough users to launch it and overwhelm PsyNex's servers. Like Danny said, it should take a couple more days before we reach critical mass.”

“What happens when they fix it?” asked Derek.

“It'll take them a while,” said Danny, through a mouthful of mashed potatoes. “We've modulated it so that the requests change, and the malware doesn't activate all IP addresses at once, but switches among them. The program will keep spreading in the mean time, and continuously add more IP addresses to the bank of usable data requesters.”

“So what, then their website is knocked out? Seems like a minor inconvenience. They're not a bank, or a retail site. Their website is more just informational, isn't it?” Derek asked.

“True,” said Danny, setting down his fork, “That's why it's only meant as a distraction.”  
“Go on,” Derek said, now more interested.  
Danny wiped his mouth with his napkin, “We've put together a trojan horse that we're preparing to send through an email disguised as an invoice from a contractor that works with PsyNex. We're doing it through a form of source routing to make it seem like it's being sent from them.”  
“Well, it won't just seem like came from them, it will be sent from them, we'll send it through their email server,” said Thomas.  
“So what can you do once you're in their system?” asked Derek.  
He watched as Danny and Thomas made eye contact with each other, pause, and then say in unison, “Kill it.”  
“Kill it?” Derek asked?  
“Yes, kill it. We can wipe it out. We can shut down any computer linked to their internal network. We can stop billing, management, research, we can erase hard drives, correspondences, memos, and we can take it all and back it up here for our perusal while we set fire to it all on their end.”  
“When can you do this?” asked Derek.  
“It'll be ready to go soon after our little distraction is,” said Danny.  
“Derek nodded, “Good. I need you to stay in communication with me when I'm gone. Have your phone with you at all times.”  
“Of course,” said Danny, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his Blackberry.  
“Thomas,” Derek started, “Do you need to stay here instead of going to the Folkmoot?”  
Thomas looked at Danny, who shook his head, “No,” said Thomas, “Danny can handle this.”  
“I think I want some more Brussel sprouts,” said Derek, shoving the last one into his mouth.

Meanwhile....


	10. Moving to Portland

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in a chapter that's relatively short compared with some of the others. Some chapters just come out a little harder to write then others, ya know? It's a little different from some of them, so hopefully you'll like it. If not, sorry, but hang in there for the next chapter, because I promise, shit gets real, and I'm really excited about real.  
> XOXO to you all and Happy New Year!

There were many ways Scott could have described his time in Portland. Time-of-his-life was not one of them. If Scott had to sum it all up in one word, _weird_ would be his go-to. Maybe _surreal_ , as well, but definitely _weird_. He reflected on it as he folded his clothes and prepared his bag for his trip to meet Derek a day ahead of the conference. In the beginning he'd been nervous that he wouldn't have anything to report. By the end of his four week stay he'd realized he had nothing to be nervous about. He'd learned plenty, although he had to admit that his methods had been suspect.

 

Despite the lackluster experience in his new home, Scott still wasn't looking forward to the trip, or spending time with Derek. He could think of other people he'd rather spend a weekend away with, like Isaac, whom he'd seen two weeks ago, or Stiles, whom he hadn't seen at all. Spending time with Derek wasn't usually a laugh fest. Scott thought back to everything that had happened, hoping he could condense his findings in some way that would not annoy Derek, and have the added effect of shortening the whole affair.

 

When the Folkmoot ended in Arizona, Scott accompanied Peter, Malia, and the scary lumberjack-looking wolf named Eric. Eric... Scott hadn't managed to find a way to like him. The best he'd been able to do was to stop rolling his eyes each time Eric appeared for meals with a yet-again sleeveless shirt to show off his massive arms. Scott wasn't totally convinced though that he was the massive brute his outward appearance let on.

 

Eric's pack had been living in Salem, but true to the advice of the gathering, had chosen to uproot to Portland. It was too bad, Scott thought, as they'd driven up to the Salem farm after the long drive from Arizona. He remembered how picturesque it was, gentle and quiet. It was the kind of place that reminded him of Summer when he was a child, when he'd go to visit his aunt and uncle on their farm in Virginia. Everything had always seemed more relaxed there. Even his mother, who would manage to get some time off to go with him, would visibly shake loose of her near-perpetual tension, as if her body, tried by her long hospital shifts, could finally let go.

 

But Salem was not where the pack and their guest were meant to stay, it seemed. Still, the alternative wasn't bad. Scott found that he quite liked the Victorian three story house into which they'd moved. He smiled, thinking about how cute it looked, with its fish scale shingles and brightly colored paint. He thought of how silly someone like Eric looked walking up the front steps of the porch, contrasting hirsute and earth-toned man-bear against prim and proper.

 

Scott had helped move the pack into its new home. There weren't many of them to help, really. There was Eric, a brother and sister named Mark and Sharon, and a strange younger woman named Lindsey whom Scott hadn't really talked to at all. It was fine by him in any case if he didn't, though Malia seemed to have taken a shine to her. Not that he'd noticed.

 

Scott hadn't come here with the intention of helping move peoples' furniture though. He'd come to observe. At first he was annoyed at having made a long trip with a bunch of people he'd rather not be around, just to transition into a volunteer mover. But as he was beginning to soak in the resentment from the small annoyance, he realized the situation could be an opportunity, an excellent opportunity in fact, to learn about the pack, and maybe Peter. When else would he have access to so many of these peoples' personal belongings?

 

Scott was thinking about the potential opportunities when he was suddenly stopped in the foyer by none other than Peter himself.

“There aren't enough rooms to give you your own bedroom; I'm sorry,” said Peter, whose face didn't appear to show any regret.

“That's alright,” said Scott, who was holding a box of books with Mark & Sharons' names written on it, “Who can I share a room with?”

“Well, Mark and Sharon,” Peter said glancing down at the box, “Already share a room together, so anyone else in the house, I suppose.”

Scott didn't know whom to choose, except that Peter was out of the question. _Sorry, I know I said I'd keep an eye on him, but that's just not going to happen_ , he thought, as if he were explaining to Derek through telepathy what boundaries he would not cross.

“I think I'll see if Malia's available,” said Scott, shifting the weight of the box a little, “Where's Mark and Sharon's room?”

“Up the stairs, on the right,” said Peter coolly, walking away without another word.

Scott made his way up to the room and knocked on the open door, peeking his head in to see if anyone was there. It was empty. A couple of bookcases had already been set up, but besides the metal frames of two beds, there was little else there.

Scott put down the heavy box. He bent over to open it, to see what kind of books they had. Then he paused and thought better of it. He slid the box over to the bookshelves and started to unpack it. Putting them up on the bookshelf looked a lot less guilty than being discovered rooting through a box with no seemingly legitimate purpose. This way he could check them out and ostensibly help out at the same time. The thought of the innocence he'd exude if he were caught actually made him feel as if he weren't invading peoples' privacy.

 

Scott suddenly felt himself very clever. Then, that little voice in the back of his head appeared, the one which always popped up at his most positive moments. These were not secret documents. He was not an agent on a mission, deep undercover behind enemy lines, rifling through some classified documents. They were books, published by Simon and Schuster, and Random House.

 

He felt like an ass. They were books about small-scale farming, about cooking, about mulching. There was nothing that he could get out of this. Some fine investigator he'd been.

 _Wait_ , he paused, his hand plunged into the box, _This is a little different,_ he thought.

He pulled out a copy of Machiavelli's The Prince . His hand faltered as he raised it to put it with the other books. _Better put this one on a new shelf_.

 

After that book, the nature of the other tomes quickly changed from farming to statecraft and power studies: Quotations from Chairman Mao Tse-Tung , Horowitz's Ethnic Groups in Conflict , The Republic , Man the State and War , on and on. Scott continued to set the books on the shelf, _I guess it's not exactly a crime to read this stuff_ , he thought, _Although it was a crime to write it_ , he mused. His internal commentary was interrupted by a voice behind him.

 

“Do you like Politics?” came the voice from the doorway.

Scott turned around to find the brother, Mark hovering, half in the hall, half in the room, his body leaning against the door frame. There was something well-heeled about the way he spoke, something about the uninterested sound of his voice matched with a crisp pronunciation, as if even the most boring topic couldn't keep him from speaking with precision and care.

 

“Umm,” Scott hesitated, “It's not really my cup of tea.”

Mark let out a light scoff, then sauntered into the room.

“Neither is it mine,” he said, looking at the books, “That's more Sharon's thing.”

 

“Gotcha,” said Scott, unconvinced, but willing to accept the supposed distinction. The siblings really seemed too close not to share an interest like that.

 

“I guess the food books are yours then?” asked Scott.

“Yes,” Mark said, “Well, actually, we share them. We both have a passion for food,” he said.

He looked over at the now-empty box of books.

 

“Well, thank you for helping us unpack, I think I can manage the rest of it,” he said.

Scott sensed it was time for him to leave. He nodded, and headed out the door. He did a double-take as he was about to go down the stairs. He spotted Malia in the room across from Mark and Sharon's. She evidently spotted him too.

She smiled, “Dad says you and I are going to be roommies.”

“Yeah,” Scott replied with a small, but forced laugh, “Yeah, looks like we are.”

 

The next week or so had been frustrating for Scott. He was making little progress. For one, he noticed a distinct pattern: he'd always be asked to run so mundane errand only to return and find that the other members of the house were discussing something with great urgency, before abruptly ceasing their conversation when they realized he'd returned.

 

Malia was actually not there a whole lot. Scott didn't mind her company, it was actually the opposite. He'd always liked her well enough, despite her unfortunate lineage. Yet, she was often away, “at a meeting,” or “on an assignment,” as Peter would explain when Scott asked. The couple of times she'd been back for the whole night, she'd stayed them in Lindsey's room. He supposed they probably didn't spend the night telling each other ghost stories and making shadow puppets.

 

Scott decided he needed a different approach to get some information. The only real interaction he'd had with anyone was Mark. Even that wasn't much. They didn't seem to really have anything in common, though despite that, Mark appeared to try and be friendly, although he was no less secretive than any of the others. Scott decided that he'd have to reach out some way to him, so he grasped at the one straw he had.

 

That night, Scott went up to Mark and Sharon's room. He hesitated, unsure whether it was a good idea, then knocked, ever-so-gingerly on the door. Half of him hoped no one was there. Mark answered the door though, just as Scott thought maybe he'd lucked out, and Scott couldn't help but betray a slight startle.

“Hey,” Scott said, his hand rubbing the back of his neck.

“Hey,” said Mark, his voice somewhat neutral, though the word was drawn out, as if wondering what Scott was doing there.

“Um, so, I was wondering if I could borrow a cookbook from you,” Scott said.

“Why? Are you not satisfied with the meals?” Mark asked suspiciously. He and Sharon had both been in charge of cooking and Scott had no problem with that. He honestly didn't know anything about cooking, and everything they made had, frankly, been delicious. It was almost enough for him to endure the long-winded explanations of every ingredient and how it was prepared that Sharon would offer to everyone uninterested but captive at the table. It reminded him of Kira's father, Mr. Yukimura, who once too often recited his favorite Tolstoy quote, that “Historians are like deaf people who go on answering questions that no one has asked them.” Scott supposed historians and chefs had something in common.

Scott shook out of his brief musing, “No,” he said. “Honestly, everything has been amazing.”

Mark looked at him with a face that begged the question, “And???”

“And, frankly, it's made me realize that I need to start learning to cook too. I won't always have someone to do it for me,” he explained.

One corner of Mark's lip curled, “Oh Scott, I can't imagine that.”

“Well, I mean,” started Scott, “Isaac's not exactly into cooking. At some point, we're going to need to stop eating all that fast food. Besides, the things you make are so much healthier and way better-tasting.”

Mark had already retreated from the doorway, his back turned now as he looked at what book he might lend to Scott. “It's true Isaac isn't really... the domestic type,” Mark commented.

“No,” Scott laughed, “He's kind of a free spirit.”

“Hmmm,” hummed Mark as he returned with his selection,“Yes, he is.”

“Wait?” asked Scott, confused, “Do you know Isaac?

“We've met,” said Mark, “And we keep in touch,” he added.

Scott wanted to ask what that meant, but before he could Mark thrust the book towards him. _Jacques Pepin_ , Scott read the name of of the author to himself.

“If you want help, you can join me in the kitchen tomorrow. Breakfast is at 7:00. I'm making omelets, if you'd like to read up and then come help out,” suggested Mark.

Scott paused for a moment. “Uhmm...Let's,” he said finally, cracking a grin at his own pun. Mark didn't seem to find it as amusing and Scott blushed, suddenly feeling really lame.

 

The next morning, after a brief perusal of Jacque's instructions, Scott decided to go down to the kitchen to help. He could tell Mark was happy to see him, and Scott did his best to be as much of a help as possible without getting in the way. He quickly grabbed whatever Mark called for, and nodded his head every time Mark would give him some tip about something small, like when to salt, or how to fold the eggs. Scott must have done an okay job, because Mark asked him if he wanted to help with dinner. Scott said yes, of course.

 

It continued on like that for the next week, and Scott found that Mark was opening up to him. He was making more jokes and he smiled more. Scott even got him to talk about his family, and little details about where he'd grown up, what he liked to do. He felt like he was starting to earn Mark's trust. He just hoped it wouldn't take too long for him to earn enough of it to learn something, anything, useful. Scott could tell Sharon was none too pleased about the budding relationship. She certainly hadn't taken an interest in tutoring Scott in the kitchen, and her eyes perceptibly narrowed any time Scott would glance over and make eye contact with her, especially whenever he and Mark hard just shared a joke.

 

Then Isaac came to town.

 

Two weeks into Scott's stay in Portland, and two weeks into Isaac's own stay in Seattle, the curly-haired young man stepped off a bus at the Greyhound depot near Union Station in downtown Portland. He'd finally broken down and bought a ticket, texting Scott only the day before to tell him he was coming. Scott was happy. He'd missed him. He'd shown up at the station half an hour early just to make sure he was there on time. He beamed as he saw Isaac get off the bus, a satchel hanging off his shoulder and a pair of wayfarers on, no doubt making Isaac think he looked too-cool-for-school.

 

The two made their way back to the old Victorian house. Mark was short but polite to Isaac. Sharon, on the other hand, seemed overjoyed to see him, which seemed bizarre to Scott, since by any account, they had probably only met once at the ranch in Arizona, and he didn't remember Isaac mentioning her. Peter seemed happy to see Isaac too. He'd even mentioned at dinner that he had been getting “good status reports from up North.” Scott had no idea what he meant by that, but figured Isaac would fill him in about everything he'd been up to later.

 

That night though, the two didn't do too much talking. Isaac had exactly one thing on his mind. Scott knew it too. It must have been bad, because unlike Isaac's usual kinky self, he just went straight in for some good-old-fashioned sex. Scott almost always topped, and he was surprised at the force with which Isaac took control, pushing him down into the bed and taking him instead. It was aggressive, and Scott didn't keep the intense feeling of being penetrated in, he let it escape in loud moans and cries, and he didn't care if anyone knew. Everyone knew.

 

Isaac must have kept his word about what he wasn't supposed to do while he was away. It was as if a new sea welled up inside Scott when Isaac finally released himself into him. Scott wondered how he had lasted as long as he did. He couldn't remember the last time he'd gotten Isaac off, and didn't know if it had really been as long as it felt. Long wasn't bad. And bad it was not. He didn't need to know about the numbing cream Isaac had applied in the bathroom before the whole thing. All he knew was he urgently needed to visit the lavatory after.

When Scott returned all cleaned up, he sighed as he got into the bed. Isaac exchanged places with him and went to get himself spruced up, then returned and closed the door. He climbed into bed too, and rested his head on Scott's chest.

 

“Feel better?” Scott asked.

“Much,” said Isaac.

 

Scott secretly thanked Malia for giving him the room for the night. She was a champ.

 

The next day they had breakfast. Scott let Mark do the cooking, declining to come help. Three in the kitchen was too much. Isaac was headed back that same day. His bus would leave in the late afternoon. Although they would have most of the day together, Scott couldn't help thinking about Isaac leaving. He knew the day would be wasted if he thought that way, so he tried to put it in the back of his mind, to enjoy the time they had together.

 

While Scott managed to push the thought of Isaac leaving so soon out of the way, it didn't make it easier to enjoy the day with Isaac. They went to the park and sat in the grass. The sky was overcast. It always was here. Isaac said he didn't mind that the sun never shone. The sun had always bothered him. Not on some existential level; he just burned easily. Scott used to tease him that he was the only werewolf who was also a vampire.

 

“So tell me what you've been up to,” said Scott, once they'd gotten comfortable on the knoll that looked out towards downtown.

“Oh, this and that,” said Isaac, who apparently didn't feel the need to elaborate any further.

“Mhm,” muttered Scott in reply, “Well I guess 'this and that' is okay.”

There was just silence. Scott played it cool. Isaac didn't want to talk for some reason or another. The cool breeze wafted over Scott's face, and it made him remember that the only person in control here was the one who decided to be.

“Priscilla isn't a bad person, you know,” Isaac said suddenly.

“I didn't say she was,” Scott replied.

“You said she was creepy,”

Scott let the silence drip through those words, which lingered in the air. He suspected his approach might be working because he himself felt uncomfortable by it, and that meant Isaac did too, maybe more so.

“It's funny, Isaac,” he said, trailing off.

“What is?”

“How sometimes you start to answer questions by trying to avoid doing just that,” said Scott.

Isaac didn't know what to say. He knew Scott didn't approve of Priscilla. He recognized he was being defensive, aware that Scott didn't approve.

“Would you have preferred if I hadn't gone to Washington?”

“Yes,” said Scott.

“You can't tell me what to do,” Isaac said dismissively.

“I never did,” said Scott.

 

Isaac thought back to everything. He might as well tell him. He resented feeling guilty for going. He was who he was, and he wouldn't let anyone stand in his way, not anymore. Most people who knew him probably assumed that he'd asked for the bite out of a need for protection. After all his father had done to him, that was understandable. And that's how he'd framed it. That's how he let everyone see him. And that picture fit well in its frame.

 

But the truth was, deep down, the protection Isaac had sought from the bite came not from becoming strong, but from feeling special. Becoming a werewolf had fulfilled that need for a while, it was true. But as his life slowly became engulfed by the pack, as he was surrounded more exclusively by werewolves and other so-called _supernatural_ creatures, he'd felt himself dragged back into the abyss of mediocrity: an ordinary beta, not particularly strong or particularly anything really. He constantly risked becoming what his abusive father had always told him he was: not good enough.

 

He couldn't let himself be that. He had to strive for something more, and he wouldn't let Scott stand in the way of that. For a time, Scott had made him feel special. It felt good to be loved by someone like him. But even dating an alpha werewolf, a special werewolf, only served to sate his need for so long. That had passed, so Isaac took the plunge. He'd tell Scott about what he'd been up to. And more importantly, without guilt, fear, or regret. He'd tell him honestly. If Scott couldn't handle it: too bad. Onward and upwards. Most of him still hoped Scott could handle it though. Or at the very least, that he could tolerate it.

 

“Well,” Isaac started, “Priscilla's gotten me a lot of training in sniping.”

“What for?” asked Scott, calmly.

Isaac got riled up, “Well, what _not_ for?”

“Well, I mean, what would you use a skill like that for?” Scott asked.

“I don't know,” Isaac admitted. He'd never been told why he would practice a skill like that, he'd just thought it was cool.

“You should have seen it,” Isaac continued, undeterred, “We spent a couple of days in the woods outside of Spokane. We were deep, I mean deep in the woods. I got to try a bunch of different rifles. Priscilla wanted me to see which one I liked best.”

Scott just listened, he wasn't interested in guns, and the various models and calibers Isaac rattled off meant nothing to him. He had no interest in even asking which one Isaac had picked, even for politeness' sake.

“And Chris was there too, and I learned how to use a laser range finder to make adjustments with my scope,” continued Isaac excitedly.

Scott hadn't seen Isaac so genuinely enthusiastic about something in a long time. Maybe ever.

He wanted so badly to groan in frustration. He refrained, but couldn't help himself from at least saying something.

“Isaac,” Scott started.

Isaac stopped mid-word as he prattled on, and looked over at Scott.

“Yeah?”

“You're a werewolf,” Scott said.

“I've noticed.”

“What do you need a sniper rifle for?”

“Could you rip someone's throat out from a thousand yards?” retorted Isaac.

“No,” Scott admitted, “But I could from three feet in front of them, and I could close the other 999 yards to do it pretty fast,” Scott said confidently.

“You're just jealous,” Isaac accused, pouting and staring at the ground.

“No I'm not, I'm,” Scott stopped and just finished his objection with a sigh.

“Go on, continue,” Scott conceded.

“Well if you don't want to hear about it you could just say so. I didn't even get to tell you about the explosives training,” Isaac said.

“What?!?” _God damn you Priscilla_ , he thought, as Isaac began to go on about the merits of various types of plastic explosives, seemingly oblivious, or perhaps, just not caring, that Scott was more disturbed than interested. But what Scott didn't know was that Isaac wasn't oblivious. Isaac felt emotionally hurt, weakened by the lack of even a modicum of support over telling Scott so much. He didn't feel like his efforts were being validated by the one person who should always have his back. It made him feel worthless, shameful even, but more than anything, foolish. That's why he never told Scott the biggest part of his trip so far, and Scott, eager to hear nothing more about his ventures, didn't know or care to ask.

 

It would be fair to say that it had not been the best afternoon for Scott. They'd gone back to the house and laid in bed for the several hours before Isaac was supposed to take his bus back up north. They hadn't talked much, though Scott had held Isaac's hand on the way back from the park. As they lay in bed, the door shut to the outside world, Scott whispered as he stared at the ceiling, “I don't want you to go back.”

 

“I don't want to either,” said Isaac.

“Yes, you do,” Scott replied.

“I just told you I don't,” said Isaac, turning over to look at Scott as if he'd just accused him of lying.

“Well, if you don't want to, then don't.”

“You know I have to.”

“You don't have to do anything you don't want to, Isaac.”

“I know that,” Isaac replied, his tone, maybe not quite convincing even himself.

 

They lay there, silent for some time. They were close in those last few moments, but only physically. As the time approached for them to head back to the bus station, Scott whispered a couple of things into Isaac's ear. Then a question. Isaac seemed uncomfortable.

“I don't know.”

 

The whole house heard the argument that followed. Peter sat in the study, a brief smile creeping across his face as he heard the front door slam, then re-open, then slam again. Sharon stood in the kitchen. The knife she was using to slice potatoes came briefly to a halt, then resumed its task. Mark felt a pang of hurt, empathy for Scott, but didn't dare run out to interfere. Malia and Lindsey gave it no mind, the fracas barely audible over the sound of the television set playing _Game of Thrones_ in Lindsey's bedroom.

“Tullys be cray,” said Lindsey.

“Right?” asked Malia lazily.

“Do you think Scott and Isaac are okay?” Malia asked.

“They'll be fine,” said Lindsey dismissively.

Eric was in the workshop out back. He didn't hear anything over the sound of his round saw cutting through metal.

 

Scott returned to the house later that night. He'd not come down from his room, even for dinner leftovers. Everyone wondered if things were okay, even though everyone knew they weren't. Malia had sneaked up a couple of times, ostensibly to grab some personal item or another from her side of the room. She'd tried a quick, “How's it going?” and a “Want me to bring you something to eat?” both of which had been met by a “Fine,” and a “No thanks,” by Scott, whose voice was muffled by the pillow he lay face-down in.

 

The next day, Scott came downstairs before breakfast. Mark was in the kitchen, as usual. He looked up at Scott, who stood there, hands in his pockets, looking sullen.

“Everything okay?” asked Mark, his voice half-emptied of concern.

“Hungry.”

“You didn't come down for dinner last night,” Mark said, stating the obvious.

“Didn't feel much like eating.”

Scott's despondent gaze off into nowhere broke at the sound of the whisk Mark set down forcefully in the spoon rest.

“Come on,” Mark said, sounding tired by the whole affair. He pulled an apron off the peg in the pantry and held it out to Scott who dutifully approached, as if he were the sous-chef, late to the kitchen.

“Mince these,” said Mark, handing him a bunch of green onions, “The whites only, rough chop a bit of the greens.”

Scott got to work on his newly appointed task. He didn't say a word. He hadn't imagined Mark would take Isaac's visit so badly. He hadn't given even the slightest hint that he was warming up, despite his overture to allow Scott to help him in the kitchen.

“How are you?” asked Mark, all of the sudden. Scott was taken aback a bit by the suddenness of the question.

“I'm... not great,” he responded hesitantly.

“I thought you would be beyond great, after your visit from Isaac,” said Mark, feigning ignorance none to convincingly.

“The truth is,” Scott admitted, “I thought us seeing each other would help us stay close. But I think instead it just drove us more apart.”

“ _More_ apart?” asked Mark, “As in already somewhat apart?”

“Isaac seems to be drifting,” Scott said, “And it doesn't seem to be towards me.”

“Sometimes people grow in different directions. They take separate paths,” Mark offered.

“Maybe,” said Scott.

 

Several days passed after Isaac had left. Scott was not quite in limbo, but the usual mundane chores and errands continued, reminding him of how apart he was from the rest of the house. His relationship with Mark had warmed up again. Their previously usual cooking sessions had resumed and thawed whatever ice had formed between them from Isaac's visit. Even Peter, who had never seemed thrilled by Scott's presence, began complimenting him on the quality of the meals he'd help Mark create.

 

It was only three nights after Isaac had left that Scott retired at the end of a long day to his room. It was empty again, Malia opting for some time with Lindsey. He exhaled deeply, purposefully, imagining one nostril venting sadness, the other frustration, to rid himself of it all. The eyes he'd closed to ponder his troubles, opened instantaneously at the sound of a knock on his door.

 

It was Mark.

“Can I come in?” he asked.

“I'm not feeling great right now,” Scott said.

“I figured,” said Mark, “That's why I stopped by.”

“Okay,” Scott said, sounding resigned to Mark's kindness.

 

Scott scooted over to the side of his bed which he'd pushed up against the wall. Mark came in and sat down on the edge.

 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Mark asked.

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“No.”

“Do you still love him?” asked Mark.

Scott froze at the forwardness. He barely knew this guy. Who did he think he was, asking him something so personal?

“I'm not sure,” he admitted, “I'm not sure I know him anymore.”

It was odd to admit that to Mark. It didn't feel like some spy-like ruse he'd concocted . Instead, it was like he was admitting something in confidence to someone whom he knew he couldn't trust. But maybe that was okay. Maybe he could say something truthful to someone who might stab him in the back with it. He just had to make sure he kept an eye on it.

 

Scott looked over at Mark, suddenly realizing he'd drifted off into his own thoughts, neglecting the very person who'd prompted them. Mark's gaze was downcast. He seemed to be deep in thought as well.

“I don't think Isaac knows who he is,” Mark said all of the sudden.

Scott let out a soft, short breath at the thought. Maybe Mark was right. He probably was.

“How can you love someone who doesn't know who they are?” asked Mark, “Do you love him? Or do you love an idea of him? Whose idea is it?”

 

 

 _Goddamnit_ , thought Scott, his eyes welling with tears, _Why am I letting him get to me_ ? _Is it on purpose? Is it sincere? I hate this place. I hate all of this_.

Mark could see Scott filling with emotion, and, perhaps because it was a moment of vulnerability, chose to reach out and rest a hand on his shoulder.

“It'll be okay,” he said.

Scott got a sudden chill as he felt the mattress shift a little. Mark scooted over to sit right beside him.

“I know who you are, and I know who I am,” Mark said.

 

They spent the night together, and Scott woke the next morning to Mark nudging him.

“Let's get up. We need to get started on breakfast,” he said cheerfully.

 

Between that night and the moment Scott opened the door to leave for his secret meeting with Derek, Mark and Scott had been inseparable even outside the kitchen. Scott marveled at some of the secrets someone so furtive would suddenly divulge in a trickle of whispers late at night on a mattress. Scott would have been pleased if he weren't so worried. He managed the smallest of smiles as Mark gave him a hug and sent him on his way with a bag of cookies for the road.

 

 

 

 


	11. A New Meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always- on the fly. Forgive my lack of editing. One pass-by never seems to do it. Hope you enjoy, and sorry for the monstrously long chapter.

It was still early in the morning as Isaac walked down a cold Seattle street. Fog swirled around his feet, and his hands were tucked into the pockets of his gray coveralls. A tool bag hung from his shoulder. He'd done a good job. They would be pleased, he hoped.

 

As self-congratulatory as he was feeling, though, his confident steps faltered ever so slightly as the five-story building, a good distance behind him now, suddenly exploded. Isaac caught his misstep. It would have been normal to have some sort of reaction to an event like that, but he was still embarrassed at the thought someone might have seen that he'd nearly tripped. _No_ , no one had noticed, he assured himself, and he continued his confident stroll away. The building's blown-out windows spat fire behind him, but quickly disappeared beneath the horizon. An ominous black column of smoke rose ever higher into the sky, and the distant sound of sirens, replaced the backdrop of his departure.

 

And there she was, Priscilla, sitting in the car that had dropped him off less than an hour ago. She watched the rising smoke through her ridiculous reflective aviators. Her lips were pursed around a lollipop. Isaac came around and opened the passenger door. “Good work,” said Priscilla, as she turned the ignition and pulled the car out into the street, “Would you like a sucker?” she asked, “They're cherry.” She handed him one despite no response.

Isaac's tongue was bright red by the time they reached the safe house.

 

They made their way up the steps of the cute little house. Priscilla opened the door and ushered Isaac through. It was still dark. Everyone, no doubt, was still asleep, unaware and unconscious, safe in bed while he'd worked on his special project. He'd have to wait a few hours, but eventually he'd get to tell them all that it had been a success. Priscilla flipped the light switch. “Surprise!,” everyone shouted. There they were, all of them, assembled in the living room with a cake and a tray of champagne glasses. Isaac was stunned.

 

Kira came over and gave him a hug, “Great work,” she whispered in his ear. Isaac didn't thank her, he was too fixated on the banner hanging at the far end of the room, where the space started to flow into the kitchen. “Congratulations Isaac,” it read.

 

“But how could you have known it would work?” He was completely bewildered.

 

“We knew you'd get it done,” said Mike, stepping forward and shaking his hand jovially. He saw him staring at the banner. “I ordered that last week,” he said, his voice lowering, “You did well. There was never any doubt in my mind or anyone else's.” He leaned in and gave him a hug and a brief pat on the back. The _'atta boy_ _'_ thatIsaac felt didn't need to be said.  


Isaac saw Chris Argent, sitting there on the couch. Chris nodded to him. He  looked proud. It showed  ever-so-slightly in his face, which  meant that like  whatever  other emotion he was feeling underneath his stoic facade,  the feeling was multiplied at least twice, if not more.

“You got me champagne?” Isaac asked amused.

“It's a celebration,” said Mike. He went over and started pouring some out  for everyone. Isaac found  the whole setup curious,  however . All the champagne glasses were flutes, except one, which was the flat, round type. Mike handed out all the flutes and gave the round one to Isaac. “I remembered you told me  that  you thought these were classier and needed to make a comeback,” said Mike, “I found this in an antiques store downtown. Shannon crystal. You deserve it  buddy .” 

Mike raised his glass  and so did everyone else.  _To Isaac_ was the cheer.

 

“ So tell us all about it,” said Kira, sitting on the couch next to Isaac, “What was it like?” Everyone was gathered around. They all seemed to want to know. Isaac blushed a little before settling back with glass in hand. None of them had known about the project except Mike and Priscilla.  At least not the details anyway. They'd known something big was going down, but little else. 

 

Priscilla had texted them the moment it had happened: _Turn on the news_. And that's exactly what was playing in the living room now, the volume turned down, almost inaudible.

 

Isaac decided he could manage a few words, what with all the attention.  “Well, it was a PsyNex facility. A documents archive, where they store hard copies,”  he explained , “Peter made an  ' in ' with the guard on duty, who disabled the  heating system. People started complaining it was too cold, so they called for a repairman. That's where I came in,” Isaac explained.

 

“I showed up early in the morning, way before the repair company was scheduled to get there. The guard let me in, and called into the home office to let them know the repairman got there early. He showed me down to the sub-basement, then let me do my thing. I pulled out a timed pilot light and then a gas mask. Then I gouged the natural gas line.”

“ No explosive residue, just an unfortunate accident,” added Priscilla, “We can be subtle when we want.”

“Didn't the guard smell the gas? Doesn't it smell like rotting eggs or something?” asked Kira.

“Mer-” started Priscilla.

“Mercaptan,” said Isaac, cutting her off.

“He smelled it after it had pretty much filled the basement. He came by to see if I was okay. He opened the door and shouted out for me. I hoped that maybe the fumes would overwhelm him, but it wasn't enough with him just standing in the hallway.”

“So what did you do?” Mike asked.

“I was waiting behind the door, expecting he'd show up. But when I didn't hear him faint, I came around and cut his throat,” said Isaac nonchalantly.

 

The room's cheerful atmosphere was replaced with silence. Then a starting sound from Kira, “But, why would he even still have been around? He let you in. He knew what you were there for. He was your 'in.'”

“We told him Isaac just wanted to look at a couple files in the basement once he was done fixing the heating,” Priscilla explained.

“So you lied?" Kira asked, pointedly.

“He tried to kill Stiles,” Isaac scoffed, “And besides,” he added smugly as he glanced at the television, "I said I'd fix the heating. Doesn't look so cold now, does it?"

Mike exchanged a look with Argent, before intervening, “And let's not forget the guard was working for PsyNex,” added Mike, “That in itself is enough, considering what they're doing.”

 

__

 

This time, Scott was the one taking the Grey Hound bus .  And just like Isaac, he was heading South. Rain split-splatted against the windows of the coach as it rolled down the highway, its ultimate destination San Francisco. Scott, however, was getting off before then, meeting Derek in a town called  Medford , in Southern Oregon, not far from the California line.

 

Scott's head was leaning against the side of the pillar separating the large windows. His eyes couldn't make out more than the vague shadows and dark colors of the trees passing by, blotted out by the heavy raindrops. He perked up a minute though, when he heard one of the other passengers in the half-empty bus remark to  his companion, 

“Did you see the news about that building blowing up?”

“Yeah, the one in Seattle?” asked the other

“Yeah, it was some kind of tech company”

“Scientists and their experiments,” the other man scoffed.

“I thought they said it was like a records department,” said the first.

“Not anymore,” dismissed the other man.

 

Scott's heart sank.  He knew who it was . It had to be. He quickly shot a text message off to Isaac:  _Are you okay?_ His head returned to the pillar, his mind racing with thoughts of all the possible things which could have happened to him. . He looked down  when his Blackberry buzzed. 

 

It was a text form Isaac:  _Yeah._ _Just watching TV._ _You?_

Scott let out a deep sigh of relief. Maybe it hadn't been him after all.

 

Scott stepped off the bus.  Derek was there to meet him.

“Ready to go?” he asked. Scott nodded. He followed Derek to a car, a rental. At least, it had that look: that dreary plainness of a 'That will do' vehicle. It was soulless, nothing Derek would ever own. They both got in. Derek waited patiently throughout the soft thud of Scott's door closing against the frame and the ensuing silence.

“You look like you've had bad news,” said Derek softly.

“I heard about the explosion in Seattle,” Scott replied.

Derek grunted, acknowledging he'd heard too.

“I was afraid it was Isaac,” said Scott, “ But I texted him and he said he was fine.”

“That doesn't mean he didn't have something to do with it,” said Derek.

“Do you think he did?” Scott asked.

“I'm positive,” said Derek, his eyebrows arching in disbelief at the question.

 

And just as suddenly as Scott had arrived in Medford, he was leaving it again. They were entering the highway,  and  by what Scott could tell,  they were  going South or West,  __Oh great, farther from Portland__ , he thought. “Where are we going?”

“Ashland,” said Derek, “It's not far.”

“Why?”

“Because it puts one more point of connection between Portland and us,  just  in case they were following you,” said Derek. “ A nd not that Medford is the place PsyNex would have much of a presence, but Ashland  _most definitely_ doesn't have any of their goons creeping around.”

“What do you mean?” asked Scott.

“It's a little college town- it's got more granola crunchers and Shakespeare nerds than it does mad scientists and  corporate security apes.  P lus,”  Derek said,  turning his head to look at Scott, “ I like it there.”

 

Derek was right. It wasn't far.  W ithin twenty minutes,  they were in front of a cute little hotel  near the town center. They checked in and Derek brought in some bags as Scott watched the news on the room's television. The sound of the female broadcaster's voice sounded tinny and far-off as Scott was absorbed in the video of the building on fire.

 

_Investigators so far believe it was a gas line break_ _in_ _the building_ _'s basement_ _which triggered the explosion and subsequent fire._ _Several_ _employee_ _s_ _confirmed there had been heating issues in the building. One person is confirmed missing: a security guard who was on duty at the time._

 

Scott looked over at the sound of Derek's Blackberry vibrating against the wood of the table by the door. He watched as Derek picked it up.

“Yes, Isaac did it,” he said.

“How do you know?” Scott asked.

Derek looked at him sternly, “Because I asked him if he did.”

“So did I.”

“Sounds like you asked him how he was doing,” Derek replied. Derek crossed the room and sat down next to him.

“The difference Scott, between an alpha and a partner is that I care about  _what_ my pack is up to, not  _how they're feeling about it_ .”

“But I  _do_ care about him,  and  I care what he's doing. I told him I don't like it,” said Scott.

“And where did that get you?”  asked Derek, gesturing at the television set. “It looks like it got you a flaming building.”

Scott's eyes narrowed, and then his voice got loud.  “You're his alpha! You could have commanded him to stop! To come back to California!” he  yelled , “How is this  _my_ fault?!?”

Derek held up a finger, shushing him. Scott recoiled, offended by his dismissiveness. Derek didn't see his reaction. He was concentrating on his Blackberry. He  was sending  a message to Danny and Thomas:  _Proceed with plan_ .

“ You're such a fucking prick! Do you know that?!?” Scott asked, swatting Derek's condescending finger away from his face.

Derek looked over at Scott as he put his phone in his pocket, “Let's take a walk,” he said, his voice more gentle, as if trying to calm him. Scott really didn't feel like taking a walk, especially with someone like Derek right now. Derek's suddenly different tone though, convinced him that maybe it was a good idea. It was as if Derek wanted to remove them from a space already filled with aggression and accusations. Maybe moving outdoors wouldn't be such a bad thing, Scott admitted to himself.

 

“I realize I have to burden some blame in all this,” said Derek as they walked on the little forest path just behind the hotel. He shrugged his shoulders and sighed, “Maybe I should burden it all.”

Scott didn't respond. He wanted to see where this was going, or if that was all he had to say.

They came to a little creek, to a stone bench that faced the brook, just to the side of the little path. Derek sat down, and with a deep breath, Scott decided he would too.

“I just sent a message to Danny and Thomas,” Derek said, looking down at the water running past. “I Instructed them to launch an electronic attack against Psynex.”

“Right after what just happened at the records repository?” asked Scott, not believing what he'd just heard.

“It wasn't meant to be like that. But believe me when I say I didn't know anything about the bombing. In fact, the cyber-attack wasn't really meant for a specific time at all. I was waiting to see when we could use it. I wanted to bring it to people's attention at the meeting. But now seems the best time. Something tells me it's more effective when combined with this attack; more effective than waiting for another day,” Derek explained.

 

Scott shrugged his shoulders. “I don't know,” he said dejectedly, “Whatever you say.”

 

Derek turned to him and grabbed him roughly by the shoulders, “That's not a very alpha thing to say.”

Scott was startled, “I am an alpha.”

“Then act like one,” insisted Derek.

 

“ _You_ act like one,” said Scott, “Bring him home.”

 

Derek shook his head, “I'm not so sure. I can't know that his loyalty to me hasn't changed. More than that, I can't handle another pair of eyes around me that I can't trust.”

 

“You can trust him,” said Scott. “I know him. Deep down, he's a good a person. Hurt, but good. I saw it, even as he was pulling away from me when he came to visit. What he needs right now is you, more than anyone. But only if you can give him the time and attention. He won't betray you if you remind him he has a pack to belong to.”

 

“He does,” said Derek defensively.

“Does he?” asked Scott, “Be careful. You may lose the one member of your pack whose still alive.”

Derek tried not to lose his temper. He was under so much stress already, and a gibe like that hit home, and a home was all he was trying to keep together.

 

“Why don't you tell me what you found out from your time with the Peter and the others?” asked Derek, diverting the conversation elsewhere.

 

“Fine,” said Scott, who proceeded to recount how he'd found it hard to make any progress gathering any type of information. They'd been closed off to him from the beginning, he insisted. Peter had almost certainly known what he was doing there.

 

“You don't need to tell me the whole story about how you didn't get me any information,” interrupted Derek at one point, “Just get to it.”

 

“Right,” said Scott, breaking out of his tale and shifting gears.

 

“So I made an in-road with Mark, one of the two siblings I was telling you about,” said Scott.

“Oh?” said Derek, egging him on in a vile tone, “And how did you manage to do that?”

Scott stared at him, stone-cold.

“By sleeping with him, Derek,” he spat, “It's what I had to do, and it's what I did, over and over again, to get _your_ fucking information, so cut the bullshit and show me some respect.”

Derek leaned forward with some hint of guilt.

“I'm sorry.”

 

Scott regained his composure, “It's fine,” he said, far from sounding like it was.

“Peter's got something going on. Big political plans, plans I think we're going to see at the next Folkmoot.”

“Well, go figure,” said Derek sarcastically once again, unable to help himself, “The guy who changes a meeting of the packs into a Folkmoot has political ideas in his head? I'm astonished.”

“He's organized,” warned Scott. “Mark's sister, Sharon, she's a political strategist. That's what I'd call her, anyway. She's a cold, hard bitch, and she's enthusiastic about the campaign.”

“What about Mark?” asked Derek, reclining against the stone bench's back, as he crossed his arms.

“Mark's a bit of a different breed,” said Scott, “He's clever, and he's sociable... to a point. He doesn't like confrontation.”

“What's his position?”

“He liaises with other packs; does logistics. He's more the back-end sort of guy,” said Scott.

Scott immediately caught himself, giving a sideways glance.

“Yeah, I'll bet he is,” Derek said with a smirk.

Scott blushed.

Derek, though, returned immediately to business, “I wonder if he's the one who's been ordering the assassinations.”

“The what?” asked Scott.

Derek looked at him, disbelievingly. “Do you seriously not watch or read the news?”

“Well,” said Scott sputtering, “I mean, no.” He dropped his head into his hands, “I heard about the explosion from someone on the bus.”

Derek rolled his eyes, “Well if you did, you'd have noticed there's been a series of murders up and down the coast,” he said, “Not high-profile, but still, people associated with PsyNex.”

“Not high profile people? Then, like, who?” asked Scott.

“Low-level people. People easy to get to,” said Derek, “Office staff, the occasional scientist-usually just starting out, delivery men, or maybe just a security guard on a third-shift.”

“Doesn't sound very effective,” said Scott, kicking a nearby pebble down into the creek.

 

“Maybe not,” said Derek, “Though the strategy seems sound. They're making it hazardous to work for PsyNex. They're just not getting at the next level up. The people they've killed so far, probably not a single of one of them knew anything about the experiments on wolves. Except, of course, that security guard in Seattle.”

“How do you know?”

“We've crossed paths.”

 

“So you think it's just a matter of time before we can start killing off people higher up?”

“I'm not sure I'd like to see that happen.”

“But you said it was a sound strategy.

“That doesn't mean it's right.”

 

“There's something else you should know,” said Scott.

Derek didn't say anything.

 

“I think, now,” Scott hesitated, “Now, I'm not sure, but I think Peter may be in communication with someone at PsyNex.”

“Who?” Derek asked. Derek's sudden intensity scared Scott, who was immediately sorry he brought it up, but he was desperate.

“I'm not exactly sure,” said Scott.

“Then how does that help me?” Derek asked, losing interest almost at once.

“What I know is it sounds like he's trying to negotiate some kind of settlement, or a deal, or something with PsyNex and the military, something on behalf of all the packs,” said Scott.

“As if he spoke for all of us,” said Derek, clenching his fist. “It's typical of Peter to want power. It's obvious he's been trying to get it, but it's another thing for him to assert his power before he actually gets it.”

“That's another thing,” said Scott.

“What?”

“He's been sending a lot of communications to other packs. Maybe like he's building up a base of support?” Scott said.

“How do you know?” asked Derek.

“Two reasons,” said Scott, now speaking earnestly, “One time when I was asking Isaac what he was up to, he mentioned he was helping Priscilla to package up and send out a bunch more Blackberries, and then, Mark once left his phone unlocked when he got up to use the bathroom, and I got a look at one of the texts he'd just sent,” said Scott.

“And what did it say?”

“We're counting on your support, make sure to be represented. It was something like that.”

 

“Okay,” said Derek, “Good work.” He patted Scott on the back reassuringly.

 

The two of them went back to the room after stopping by the hotel restaurant. Derek worked on his laptop. Scott contented himself with watching TV and texting.

“The Denial of Service attacks still seem to be working,” said Derek.

“Oh, that's good,” said Scott distractedly, eyes fixed on the TV screen.

 

The two headed back north the next day. The Folkmoot was supposed to be in Salem, per the decision at the last meeting. And indeed it was, or at least, it was close to Salem. Peter had arranged to rent a retreat center close by. It was a good place to have so many people assembled and still remain inconspicuous.

 

Peter was already there, welcoming people one by one as they arrived. Scott noted his demeanor was different from the last meeting. They both checked in, and went to deposit their things in a small cabin, a bunkhouse made for four. Thomas Reader arrived not much later and joined them. Derek had asked the few contacts they'd made to come as early as possible, but he feared it was too little, too late. He'd done it at the last minute.

And then Mike walked in.

“Hey there buds!” he said, tossing his bag on the floor.

_Nice_ thought Derek cynically.

 

“Hey,” said Thomas and Scott almost simultaneously, their tones neutral, neither feigning enthusiasm nor expressing any resentment or distrust.

 

“Derek, don't be rude. Say hi,” said Thomas nudging him.

“Hi,” said Derek, reluctantly, as he climbed up to the top bunk.

It was hours before the meeting, but he preferred to lie there staring at the ceiling. If sleep came to him, then so much the better. He was still tired.

 

“Well,” Michael said hesitantly, as he moved his bag onto the only empty bunk, “I suppose I should head up to the main meeting hall. I think Peter wants to see me.” He'd gotten the hint, it seemed. 

“Have fun,” said Derek dryly, staring at the wood beams above him.

 

“Are you okay?” Scott asked Derek. Thomas looked up, his hands folded, as he sat on the lower bunk across from Derek's.

 

“Just thinking,” said Derek, “Are you ready for tonight, Thomas?”

Thomas got up, “Nearly so,” he said, “I just need to caucus a bit before hand.”

“Do what you have to,” said Derek, before raising his head from the pillow, “Scott, take a walk. Take a couple walks, actually. Say hi to people you recognize. Hell, say hi to anyone. Just remind anyone you might remember that you're on friendly terms.”

 

The two other werewolves left the small cabin and Derek breathed out a sigh of exasperation. His mind was focused on the task at hand. It would be difficult, but it wasn't the difficulty that gnawed at him, it was the uncertainty of the outcome. He almost permitted himself to accept the idea that crept into his mind: that things would overwhelmingly not go his way. It would make it so much easier to just give up, to go home. But he wouldn't let that dark, creeping muse's song take hold of him. And just as he was fighting off that nagging sense of impending doom, his phone buzzed. Derek held it up to take a look. It was Stiles. He read the words, their black text backlit by a warm glow, _No matter what happens, just remember it will be okay._

 

Derek let his hand holding the cellphone collapse onto his chest. People sometimes talked about telepathy, and he didn't believe it for a moment. But sometimes they seemed to have that connection, Stiles and him. It was more than just a 'we complete each other's sentences,' sort of connection. He was all gloom-and-doom, and try as he might, even  doubting that Stiles had any idea what he was dealing with, the words comforted him anyway.

 

Hours  crept by;  the clock's hands inching slowly towards midnight. All three other occupants of the little cabin had returned. They were playing travel edition Taboo. Derek was disgusted at the earnestness with which they threw themselves into it.  _You've got to be kidding me_ , he thought,  _They're playing party games with the Dark Lord's handmaiden._ Scott and Thomas, on the other hand, had done their rounds, schmoozed,  shaken hands with two hands, and kissed proverbial babies. Besides, Mike seemed like a nice guy. Nothing wrong with playing an innocent game with him.

 

Michael had pulled a card and was trying to get Scott and Thomas to guess it, while Derek, as he had for the rest of the game, pretended to be asleep.  After thirty seconds of  Scott and Thomas trying to guess the word, Derek couldn't help himself out of  pure  frustration.  The words, “Carrot cake,” came from the top bunk, and the other three werewolves looked up at the sudden verbal intrusion.

 

“That's it!” said Michael, “Hey Derek, do you want to play?”

“No.”

“Oh,” Michael  said, sounding disappointed, “Well, we're getting pretty close to midnight anyway. Might as well shut it down and  head over.”

 

Derek swiveled himself out of bed so his legs were dangling over the side, then he dropped down to the ground. “ See you on the other side then,”  he said as he walked out of the room, flanked by Scott and Thomas.

 

They entered the meeting hall.  It was long  and rectangular. Unlike the tent as it had been set up in Arizona, the chairs were arranged much like they would be in  the nave of  a church. Two  columns of chairs were grouped together, an aisle separating them. At the front was a little stage, or at least, that was how Derek thought of it. It was  more  accurately  put, a platform, raised about a foot off the ground with a podium stood in the middle of it.

 

Derek told Scott and Thomas he'd sit towards the front, and that they should sit further towards the back,  separate, one on either side.  The two of them thought it strange, but agreed to the request.

They were early enough. Only a quarter or so of the seats were taken.  Even if the hall were filled, it would only  seem half the size of the last  _Folkmoot._ I f that were the case,  though,  Derek figured the number of packs present had grown considerably, since these were all alphas, unlike before.

 

He couldn't help but notice the hammers had returned, one on each side of the dividing aisle, one at each aisle running along the sides of the hall leading towards the front.  He sat there, silent, barely looking up to notice Peter who had entered as the hall filled faster and faster. He conveniently found a spot on the end as Eric was sitting  one seat in and holding it for him.  Derek  watched contemptuously, as Peter got up  several  times to consort with  different people. He was disgusted by the fake grin, his gestures, open and welcoming.  It was impossible for him to know how other people felt, difficult to know whether they were convinced. They didn't know Peter like he did. Derek thought it all amazing. He didn't think less of those who might fall under his spell. He'd been the victim of a confidence trick once or twice himself. The sting of those long-past betrayals lingered while he thought about the inevitable betrayals that would come to the people Peter presently greeted. Derek watched as Peter left the hall again, not even bothering to acknowledge him as he walked past.

 

As the clock's bells struck midnight, the hall grew silent. The reverberations of the bell hammers sent a chill down  Scott's spine.  But not Derek's. The gigantic sound of the  the hammers meeting brass did not disturb him. It simply signaled the start of something.  What chilled him, rather, was the silence  that ensued, that spoke nothing, like  the Great Sphinx.

 

Derek had some vague notion of what to expect. The quiet, the awkward, 'What happens next?' was not because of someone running late, a technical error, or some forgetfulness, it was deliberate.  It had to be; it was Peter. If nothing else, Derek knew that Peter was wont to put on a show. It was one  among several  of his qualities that put a bad taste in his mouth. 

 

_He's good at it_ , Derek admitted to himself, looking around and seeing the sense of anticipation gripping everyone around him.  Peter was the kind of person who would go to a pool hall for the first time with a custom billiards stick just to impress the ladies,  and the gents. But Derek also knew  Peter to be the kind of person who'd  have  a pool table delivered to his home , on which he'd practice for hours  alone before going out in public . The showy part wasn't an illusion to mask  something non-existent behind it. It was the complement to an equally calculated, more sinister effort.

 

Derek turned his head around, mimicking everyone else in the hall, when the sharp stamp of wood on stone broke the silence. Peter strode down the aisle, dressed in a gray suit, and was flanked by Malia and  Lindsey, both of whom Derek didn't recognize  because of their apparel. The smack of wood on stone had come from the halberd-like weapons that  the two  carried. They were cloaked, their hoods casting shadows just long enough to cover their eyes, yet letting them see anyone they wished. Derek knew by the way they were dressed that they didn't really carry the halberds for defense, they were werewolves after all.  He knew the weapon. It was called an  _Atgeir._ A weapon from a long time past in the North. He watched them advance up the aisle, Peter taking the podium, as Malia and Lindsey fanned off and took their posts at either side of the hall, like sentinels.

 

“ Welcome,” Peter began, his hands spread over the edges of the podium.  He leaned forward towards the assembled delegates. "Thank you for joining us. Welcome back to those we met at the last meeting and welcome to all those attending for the first time.”

 

Peter looked down at his notes, as if he needed them. “Because this is the first Folkmoot since the motion to reinstate it was made at the  inaugural meeting, there is nothing in the way of official reports to give. We should, I think, move immediately to Old Business, then proceed to the new.”

 

The “Old Business,” wasn't too long, much to Derek's joy. He let Thomas recount on his behalf how his pack had taken Derek and Danny in . Thomas didn't give specifics about where they'd found a new place. Peter gave his own report, quite similar, in describing the move from Salem to Portland. A few other pack leaders did the same: packs were actively moving into areas like San Diego, Phoenix, Las Vegas, Vancouver, Sacramento, and  other large metropolitan areas .

 

But, while the Old Business was relatively brief, New Business was a bit more involved.  Peter, who presided over the assembly as host, welcomed Eric to the floor. Scott smirked at the sight of him wearing a suit. He was  like a fish out of water  and the get-up didn't become him in the least.  It looked awkward contrasted against his hirsute beard and unkempt hair. Scott wished he could take a picture to show to whatever idiot coined the expression  _the clothes make the man._

 

Eric, however, did not seem to care how foolish he looked. He proceeded to speak, which, as Scott noted silently, was another unfortunate quality about him, “I make a motion to elect an executive to oversee these proceedings in an official capacity, with a term of one year.”

 

Derek was unsurprised when Michael seconded the motion. The assembly overwhelmingly voted in favor. He wasn't surprised either when Eric nominated Peter. Derek did, however, wonder if Peter was surprised when he stood up to nominate Thomas, instead of Thomas nominating him. No one else proposed another candidate.

 

The debate between the two candidates was fierce, though more so from Thomas' end than from Peter's. It was clear, Peter felt he had nothing to prove. He was after all the host, and had usurped that position from Derek at the last meeting. He acted somewhat lazily, and seemed full of self-assurance, while Thomas railed against the utter openness of the position for which they were vying, challenging Peter on a number of occasions to explain how exactly he envisaged accountability and structure in this new government of sorts.

 

Derek was impressed. The Thomas in front of everyone there was not the same Thomas at the last meeting. He was not timid, not shy in front of the crowd. He'd had time to prepare and he excelled at the technicalities of things- the small details that make or break something. The debate was not simply between Peter and him though, a fact for which Derek was very grateful. It meant there was still a question, some people on the sidelines, someone to convince still. It meant that Peter hadn't already won the day. He and Scott took their turns clapping loudly at any point that stung Peter, and each of them made their own remarks to add to the back-and-forth.

 

 

Then Thomas brought out the biggest question of all, as Derek crossed his fingers.

“Peter, you are obviously a natural born leader, with many commendable qualities, but what made you think you could negotiate with PsyNex on behalf of all the packs without consulting us, or even letting us know?”

 

It was a gamble. Thomas didn't know if he'd actually been doing that. It was just Scott's word that gave them that suspicion. Peter easily could have denied it. What proof did they have? Peter though, didn't know how much they knew, and Derek thanked the moon that he didn't call their bluff.

 

“It's true,” began Peter, “I received some overtures from PsyNex and the government about a possible settlement to end this. Of course,” he added, “We wouldn't have anything to settle if it weren't for our efforts to confront them.”

 

“Oh, by confront them did you mean to say 'bomb buildings and murder people?'” asked Thomas.

 

“We took the fight to them and now we have the real possibility of an end to all this,” said a defensive Peter, “No one was doing anything about it, so I took the initiative. That's what you need in a leader. Someone with initiative." He grinned slyly, "So tell me Thomas, what exactly have _you_ been up to?”

 

“Well first, I would have consulted the people I claimed to represent before presuming that I did,” said Thomas. “Secondly, I launched a series of cyber attacks against PsyNex, disabling their servers,” he added.

Peter scoffed dramatically for the crowd, “I think you'll find that meddling with a company's website is more annoying than it is effective. That's the problem these days,” he said, speaking to the assembly, “Young people think they can change the world without getting off their asses.”

Thomas blushed, humiliated by the laughter from the crowd.

“But,” said Peter, holding up a finger, “Young Thomas here was clearly on the right track. He just had a different approach,” he said, turning to nod to his debater.

“Such talent, and a different, but still level perspective, could be lost with only a head executive,” he added, “Which is why I will ask someone to move for the additional appointment of a cabinet, and I'd like Thomas to head it up.”

 

_Goddamnit_ , Derek thought, as Eric swiftly amended his motion to include exactly what Peter had suggested. It was seconded by a less-than-enthusiastic Michael.

 

The vote began, and Derek's heart skipped a beat as the count gave the election to Peter by a small margin. It wasn't devastating, but nevertheless, it still felt that way. Derek had calculated the possibility. So had Thomas. Derek was never the kind of person to see the bright side of things, but in the pitched battle, he'd allowed himself the small hope of triumph. Despite the majority saying yes, though, a large, in fact, a very large minority said no, and that was something.

 

He already knew what Thomas would tell him, because they'd already discussed the scenario. He'd say that all they had to do at that point, was work on closing the gap between losing and winning. Unfortunately, there were no provisions in place for a recall, or an impeachment, or anything. Derek knew, as of course Peter did, that the _Folkmoot_ of old were assemblies that allowed input on the part of the delegates, but it did not mean it was a democracy in any sense of the word. Peter was clever to give it the trappings of something like that. Most people wouldn't know, or care. They thought they got their say, and that was all that mattered.

 

The night ended, and while most people returned to their cabins to sleep into the middle of the day, Thomas, Derek, and Scott decided they'd leave right away. The three of them packed up their things, stoically quiet. It was a n atmosphere that  naturally made Michael uncomfortable, encouraging him to find some coffee or whatever  other excuse he could come up with to not be in claustrophobically close quarters with them.

 

Thomas  headed back for San Francisco. “I'll see you back in the city,” he said, hoisting his bag and leaving. Derek turned to Scott, “I think it's best you come with me and spend a couple of days at the townhouse,” he said. Scott nodded, “I'll go find Peter and let him know I'll be gone for a bit.”

 

“Just make up something, like you're going to see Stiles,” Derek added.

“Well, that  _would_ be nice,” Scott admitted.

 

Derek waited for him to come back and then they headed out  as well . Derek grunted as they passed Michael who was returning from the main hall.  Michael tried to give the m a convivial, if half-hearted goodbye.  Derek gave him the finger. Scott mouthed  _I'm sorry_ and turned to continue following Derek to the car.

 

They were on the road south, Scott texting away. Derek became slightly annoyed at the incessant tapping of buttons. “Who are you texting, anyway?” he asked, after what seemed like an eternity of non-stop typing.

“Stiles and Danny,” he said, “I mean, Isaac too, but I'm telling  Stiles and Danny about the meeting, and that I'm going to be in town. Just seeing if they want to do anything.”

“How are things going with Isaac?” asked Derek.

“I don't know,” Scott admitted, “It's hard to tell just texting like this. He seems okay. Something about his texts just seem... distant though.”

Derek  could only afford a “Hmm...” in reply. He didn't know if anyone could seriously take relationship advice from him, given his track record. On top of that, he felt guilty about allowing Isaac to remain in Washington when he could easily command him to leave.  Asking at all was uncomfortable territory, and he regretted bringing it up at all. No one would believe him if he told them he'd asked just to be nice.

 

As they passed the border back into California, Scott suddenly turned to Derek.

“Hey! Could we take a detour through Happy Camp to see the Big Foot statue?”

 

Derek slowly rolled his eyes sideways,  leading his head to turn towards Scott as if to ask  _Are you serious?_

Scott seemed undeterred, _"Please,"_ he pleaded, “I've never been and it's just down Highway 96,” he said. “Ooh, plus,”  he added excitedly, "We could take it over to the 101 and  then  take the highway down the coast.  That would be a pretty drive.”

 

Derek sighed. “Fine,” he said, giving in. Scott was lucky he was feeling bad about Isaac.

Scott  jabbed his elbow back into the seat, his hand making a fist,  _“Yes!”_

Derek just shook his head, and took a right down highway 96 towards Happy Camp.

 

Derek should have been pissed an hour into the drive, but he wasn't. This was not a short detour, although it did, he supposed, take them west,  the direction they needed to eventually go anyhow.  And he  did have to admit, the drive was pretty.  It was  leisurely, and it helped to get his mind off of the disappointment in Oregon. He had time to think. Scott wasn't being much of a conversationalist, but that was okay. Derek preferred he just keep tapping away to his friends  to  let him be by himself for a bit.

 

The Big Foot statue was...big.  And it was also a statue.  Entertainment worth an hour-and-a-half's drive?  Well, Derek didn't think so, though Scott seemed elated.  Scott had Derek take a couple of pictures of him next to  the large monster facsimile with a disposable camera  that  he bought in the nearby gas station.

“Do you want me to take one of you?” he asked Derek.

“No. That's okay,” Derek replied, before adding, “I didn't think they still made disposable cameras.”

“Yeah, who knew?” asked Scott, winding the little wheel on the cheap plastic box.

 

They got back in the car and continued southwest on the highway towards Eureka.

“What's the word from Stiles?” asked Derek. He realized he hadn't talked to him in several days, and even before that, their contact had been intermittent. Maria and Deaton had both told him, however, that it wouldn't be unusual if Stiles seemed incommunicado at times.

 

“He seems good,” said Scott distractedly.

“I wonder what Deaton and Maria have him up to,” Derek mused.

“You haven't asked?”

“I thought I'd let them have their space. I know Deaton and Maria know what they're doing, so I don't want to get in the way.”

Scott nodded understandingly, “I guess it's a little different with friends. I mean, I'm sure he would have told me if _I_ was being a distraction. But with boyfriends maybe it's a little better to stay more distant- The emotional connection is a lot more intense.”

Derek found it odd that he'd say that. It didn't seem like an observation he'd come up with on his own, something he'd just randomly think of while happening to ponder Stiles' and his relationship.

“Did Stiles tell you that?” he asked abruptly.

There was a brief pause, and Derek's heart ached.

“He may have said something like that,” Scott admitted.

“I know we've been apart for a little while, but I mean, it hasn't been _that_ long. Is our relationship that weak?  Does he really think I'm a distraction?” Derek pondered out loud.

Scott was concerned he may have said the wrong thing, “Hey, I mean, I don't think he really wants it to be this way. I think it's actually really hard for him, but he's doing it because he has to.”

“Did he tell you that too?” Derek asked.

“Well, not in so many words,” Scott said, “But he did say he misses you.”

Derek nodded, his eyes  making contact with Scott's .  They seemed sincere. It didn't seem like he was saying the words just to make him feel better.  He felt a little relief knowing that. Stiles had told him  he missed him in a text, but it was good to hear he'd told someone else that too.

 

Derek turned  his attention  back to the road  just in time to mutter  a “What the fuck?”  and  s lam on the breaks . “Hold on,” he said keeping his eyes forward. H e'd seen the tire strip too late. Despite trying to stop he still hit  it  with enough speed to blow out all four of the car's tires. The sound was horrendous.  _Pop_ _pop, pop_ pop, and  then the sound  of  metal on asphalt. Sparks flew everywhere, and the car veered off to the right. Derek maintain ed  as much control as he could, as he half guided, half-willed his car to something in between the road and something that wasn't a tree or a  huge  rock.

 

They came to a rest  in a ditch off the side of the highway. It was one of those moments when the brain processes so much that the body simply remains motionless, every neuron devoted to the sudden violence of the preceding event,  trying to just make sense of it all. It was a natural reaction, but Derek snapped out of it sooner than Scott. The smell of the rubber from the tires smoking from the impact and the  metallic smell of aluminium wheels ground against asphalt, lingering, sinister in the air, brought him to.

 

“We have to go,” he said  urgently , “Follow me.”

Derek got out. The sound of the door slamming behind him was what  finally jolted Scott out of the shock. He'd heard what Derek had said, but it hadn't registered until now, and now just barely.  His mind was muddled,  mixed with adrenaline,  memory, a nd the rush to get away.

 

Scott jumped out of the car, turning his head frantically to see if he could spot  the threat, but he did it so fast in his panic that the trees blurred together, just green and brown blending into one another. Then he spotted Derek, who came in clear among the surrounding trees, and who was looking back at him from the edge of the forest in anticipation. He waved his hand, beckoning for Scott to come with him.  A fter a moment of confused hesitation, Scott focused just on him  and regained his center,  and  he  ran full speed, wolfing, ready to join him.

 

The two raced off into the woods.  _Don't look back_ , thought  Scott , fighting the desire to do so. His mind started to clear, letting in his senses. There was something following them. And whatever it was, there was more than just one. He looked over at Derek, who made eye contact briefly. Scott didn't know what the plan was besides full speed ahead, and he couldn't tell if Derek was just as unsure.  


They kept running, and then something appeared in his peripheral vision. Derek was looking over at him again. He looked over, and Derek growled, “Keep going  straight ,” before he suddenly veered off t o the right. Scott's immediate instinct was to keep following him, but he trusted Derek had more of a plan of action than he did. Scott watched as Derek drew farther away, running break-neck speed as two werewolves appeared to follow him down into a gully. He wanted to turn around, to go help him, but he kept going. 

 

After another few seconds though,  the guilt of leaving him, despite  Derek having told him to, overwhelmed him . He spared himself the instant of looking back. There was nothing. No one was following him anymore. He slowed, then turned towards the right, heading down the embankment to the stream  that had carved out the gully. He  began to double back,  not as quickly as he'd run before,  he was partly slowed knowing he was doing the opposite of what Derek said, bu t he was also uncertain of how quiet he  needed to be.

 

Derek, in the mean time, had leaped down into the gully. He immediately paused in the stream, before turning around and mov ing back a bit towards the embankment. It was only a second later when the first of the two wolves flew past the ridge of the forest above in pursuit,  and Derek was ready for him.  He lifted his hand in the air, slicing  the wolf from breast to hip with his claws. It fell to the ground with a tremendous thud, its head just inches from the water's edge, howling in pain and panting in agony.

 

Derek  turned and looked at him. He saw the device around his neck.  _The crab_ , he thought, as he noted the connectors that dug deep through the skin of the neck to attach to the spinal cord. 

 

He should have waited, however, before fixating on the thing.  In his curiosity, h e'd forgotten about the other wolf in pursuit. They had not split up as Derek and Scott had done.

 

The second  wolf leaped down from the embankment right onto Derek's back.  It dug its claws deep into him, and Derek yelped in pain as he felt  its  teeth sink into the back of  his neck.  He growled,  frustrated. as he tried to shake him, but couldn't. The werewolf would not let go for anything. Derek  dropped down onto all fours and ran with the other wolf still  clinging to his back, head-first into the stream. He tucked his head  and dove into the water,  rolling them both forward and onto their backs.  T he other wolf was now beneath him, and beneath the water line.

 

There was a second of tranquility, a pause, while the other wolf tried to figure  out  his next move  as he realized he was now drowning. Derek was tense, then reached down with his paws on either side, and began digging deep into the other wolfs flanks. He howled in pain as the other wolf tore into his back in  his response . It was a test of endurance, and Derek laid back heavily, keeping the other wolf underwater.  _Go ahead,_ he thought while wincing, _The more you struggle, the more air you'll use._

 

The writhing slowly stopped.  The commotion turned from a frantic jostle, to a shudder, and then to quiet. Derek lifted himself up from the water, heaving in pain as the other wolf's limp claws slid out of his back. He turned and looked down at the other wolf lying in the creek, its face as if below moving glass.  The crystal-like water ran just over it, before turning to red as it made its way downstream.  . Derek felt a chill run through him, as if cooling the wounds in his back  while  he gazed into the  bleak  eyes of the dead wolf. They were yellow.  His pupils were round and black, like wells, surrounded by bloodshot veins. Derek had looked into his dead enemies' eyes before. None of them had ever had eyes so sad, so filled with pain. He'd never before  felt sympathy for  someone wh o'd just tried to kill him.

 

Derek's focus turned. He looked up at the top of the embankment, disturbed by the sound of feet pounding dirt and leaves rustling. He started to scramble up the dirt path to meet whatever was approaching. Then he gasped as he felt a bullet enter his shoulder from the rifle of one of two soldiers standing there, looking down on him. Derek staggered forward, then collapsed to the ground. His head was turned, looking downstream. Scott was coming up the gully and Derek nodded to him subtly by slowly closing and re-opening his eyelids.

 

Scott nodded back, staying close to the gully's wall, looking up in the direction of where Derek pointed his eyes next. He saw the rifle muzzles extending from the leaves over the edge. Scott sprinted up a path to the top and slashed the nearest soldiers' stomach with his claws, just below his body armor, as he made his way to the second one whom he tackled to the ground. Scott pinned him, and ripped his throat out mercilessly with his fangs.

Scott turned back to the other soldier. He was lying on the ground, in shock, but Scott could see he was beginning to reach for his sidearm, even as his intestines started to gape through the slit he'd cut across him. He leaped onto him, and the soldier, sidearm now free, pistol-slapped him across the face. It wouldn't be enough. Scott turned his head back to bare on the soldier who fired off a hapless shot with his gun, missing him completely. The pinned soldier had a look of terror, realizing he was helpless. Scott roared deafeningly in his face, before devouring his throat. The soldier's blood pulsed and jetted like a fountain from his gaping neck, and it overflowed into Scott's mouth, pushed by the breath carrying the man's dying screams.

 

Scott stood up, blood dripping from his face. He breathed heavily, looking around to assess the situation. There was no one else he could detect. He looked down into the gully where Derek was getting up. Scott looked back down at the mangled corpses.

 

Each of the soldiers had a sort of rectangular screen attached to their helmets that swung down in front of their right eye. He remembered the captured scientist who had talked about how the experimental wolves could be controlled through a surrogate alpha, via communication with the crab. This must be how they could see what was going on. A microphone curved down as well from the bottom of the helmet. Scott supposed it must have been the way they gave commands to the wolves, just like the scientist had described.

 

Scott turned around as Derek walked slowly up to join him. He held the crab device in his hand, still attached to bits of flesh stained dark red. Scott, had reverted to human form, and recoiled at the sight, before regaining his composure and leaning down to take one of the soldiers' helmets.

“Are you okay?” he asked Derek.

Derek nodded, “It was just a normal bullet. Hell of a punch, but nothing to count me out,” he said as he touched the hole in his jacket. He started a bit at the still lingering sting of the healing wound.

 

“We need to get back to San Francisco right now,” said Derek, “No more stops, no more Big Foots, just as fast as possible,” he said.

 

Scott nodded in agreement.

 

Derek looked at him a moment, just to make sure they were clear.

“Good,” he said, “Now clean yourself up, you look like a mess.”

 

“You don't exactly look like you're attending any pageants,” said Scott as Derek looked down at himself and his torn clothing, his hands caked in dried blood. The two of them washed off as much of the grime and iron from themselves as they could and left the bodies where they were.

 

The two made their way back down to the road. Their car was still there, but with four tires shredded to bits, it wasn't going to be much good. The tire strip was gone. Derek supposed the two soldiers had removed it after they'd sprinted into the woods. At the very least, he hoped it was them instead of more soldiers still lingering in the forest. The two of them crossed the road, looking around to make sure they weren't spotted.

 

As he looked around, he noticed a tan Humvee parked back in the woods. They approached cautiously, Derek motioning to Scott to keep a low profile and move slowly. The engine was still running. The vehicle gave a soft, rhythmic purr as it sat, idling among the trees. _No wonder they have to keep invading countries for more oil_ , Scott thought, _They never turn their engines off_. There was no sign of any movement inside. Derek did a half swirl of his finger to Scott to indicate they should approach it, one from each side.

 

Scott scurried, hunched over, arriving at the other side of the vehicle. He could see Derek on the other side. They both crept towards the doors. The turn-over of the diesel engine, _doo-doo-doo-doo-doo-doo-doo-doo_ , sounded like automatic fire filmed in slow motion. It filled Scott's ears as he reached up cautiously. He opened the passenger door. The cold, metallic click of the handle releasing the door made him shudder. But the slow swing of the door opening revealed nothing inside.

There was no one waiting, no driver. He stood up, promptly checking the back. No one was there either. Derek apparently had taken it upon himself to open the trunk. Nothing there either. Scott breathed a  sigh of relief.

“Let's go,” said Derek, climbing into the driver's seat.

“Wait,”  Scott said, “W e're going to hijack a military vehicle? Are you crazy?”

  
“We're not hijacking anything,” said Derek, “We found this here, and it's no longer of use to its  former occupants . Stop being such a pussy, Scott. We're  _appropriating_ it. That's part of war.”

Scott just looked at him, shocked, before finally shaking his head and giving an “Okay.”  He didn't know what else they were supposed to do. He hadn't considered it quite like that before.

 

They headed down the road. Scott was nervous. “Don't you think this is going to draw more attention than getting there some  other way? ” he asked.

  
“ I don't see any other options available,” said Derek, before adding, “We'll abandon it in Eureka, then get a car. They'll probably come looking for it when they haven't heard from them in a while, and by then we should be long gone. Plus, most cops won't pull over a military vehicle,  even when it's speeding.”

Derek pushed down on the gas.

 

The two of them made it to Eureka,  and left the vehicle  outside the airport. They rented a car and drove to San Francisco, returning the vehicle at a location which would be inconvenient to  their home. They took a a taxi from there.

 

Derek looked at Scott as they sat in the back of the yellow cab, humming along the surface streets, “ I want you to spend a little bit of time at Thomas' place when we get back,” he said.

“What?” Scott asked, completely lost.

“Just... when we get there, I need you to go over to his place for a little bit.”

“What's a little bit supposed to mean?”

“Just as long as I tell you,”  Derek said,  before softening his tone,  “ N ot long.”

 

Half an hour later they arrived at the townhouse complex. Derek paid the taxi driver and they got out.

“Nice place,”  Sott muttered.

They went up the steps and Derek knocked on the door to Thomas' place. Thomas answered the door, still wearing the same clothes they'd seen him in  earlier. “Hey guys,” he said opening the door further and ushering them through.

“Thomas, can you entertain Scott for an hour or two?” Derek asked.

Thomas started looking around,  trying to figure out what was going on,  “Sure, I mean it's not a problem...”

“Thanks,” said Derek, heading through the  door joining the two houses , “I need to  take care of something. ”

 

Derek headed up to Danny's room. His footsteps thudded heavily against the wooden stairs. Danny must have been home, and must have heard the beat of Derek's approach, because the music coming from his bedroom stopped midway up Derek's ascent. The abrupt pause of sound broke like the door to Danny's bedroom as Derek kicked it in.

 

Danny, who was facing the door in anticipation, pushed his computer chair back with his feet, startled by the explosion of wood and daylight breaking through. He only made it a few inches before the chair's back made contact with his desk. Derek stood in the doorway, a shadow, shrouded and menacing. Danny breathed deeply as the silhouette approached, his breath caught deep, and cold, as he made eye contact with Derek whose face was now inches from his own, illuminated by the light from Danny's computer.

Derek grabbed him by the neck and squeezed, “I think you have some explaining to do.”


	12. A Rescue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whooo- so this got done in a hurry. I wanted to get it written before I have to finish a professional project I'm working on. It may read kind of rough, though, hopefully not too rough. Hope you enjoy.

Chapter 12- A Rescue

Danny's voice cracked from the pressure of Derek's grasp. His breaths were raspy and hurried. He managed, though, to choke out a reply, “What are you talking about?”  
“Are we going to do this?” Derek asked, his teeth clenched, “Are you seriously going to deny it?” His hand squeezed just a little tighter and Danny gasped.  
“Okay,” he squeaked.  
Derek's grip loosened, but still held firm. He used his still-clenched hand to guide Danny to his bed, walking him backwards until he hit the edge. Derek let go, and Danny sat down.

“Look,” said Danny, before Derek held his fingers up to his lips. Danny stopped.  
“I am looking Danny. I'm looking at a perfectly nice bedspread and I'm thinking about whether the dry cleaner can get blood out of it.”  
Danny's eyes widened, “Look Derek...”  
“Danny, shh shh shh,” he whispered, his finger pressed against his lips again. Derek stepped back, shoving his hands inside his pockets before he turned and sauntered back across the room. He chuckled, “You know. For all the trouble, maybe I'll just get a new comforter.”

Danny tried something unusual. It was a risk, but in his estimation, a necessary one. He was too scared to act confidently as himself, the one whose life was currently being threatened by a very angry alpha. So Danny switched personae. He straightened his back, and crossed his legs, folding his hands in his lap quite properly.

He tried to use a gentle, subdued voice. “I understand that you're upset,” he began, “But here I am, and here you are.” He waved his hand around the room. His eyes followed it, and tried not to stop at the sight of the bedroom door laying in ruins on the floor.

“So,” Danny said, “Why are you upset?”

Danny jerked back suddenly, met with a roar so enraged, it was as if the force of the sound itself would topple him over. It appeared his strategy wasn't going to work. Derek was back across the room again, and he grabbed him by the neck, this time his claws piercing Danny's skin. Little droplets of blood slowly started to pool around the tips of Derek's claws, and pulled by the weight of gravity, started to trickle down Danny's neck. Danny cried out in pain as the collar of his shirt slowly stained dark red.

Derek looked him in the eyes, cold and undeterred. “Tell me,” he said, “About how you've been feeding Peter information.”

Derek's head snapped around at the sound of footsteps running towards the room. Thomas appeared, followed by Scott, both looking alarmed. “What are you doing?!?” Thomas yelled, looking at Derek, still holding Danny by the throat.

“Stand back,” Derek warned, “This doesn't concern you.”  
Derek turned back to Danny, undeterred, their eyes locked as he stared him down. Then Derek's hands released a little at the cold sound of a menacing growl, Thomas' deepened voice muttering slowly, “Let him go.”  
Scott, who was just behind him, tried to plead with him too, “Come on Derek, let's talk about this before you do something you'll regret.”  
Thomas was approaching slowly and his pack must have heard his growl through the wall, as they came bounding in.

Derek knew this was not the time or the place. _It should be_ , he thought, but he wasn't getting out of that room with a dead Danny and an alive Derek. As much as Thomas might not have been imposing in human form, he certainly could do some damage as a wolf, especially with his pack now there to back him up.

Derek let go of Danny's neck. Danny's hand immediately reached up to the warm liquid he already knew was blood. He held his palm up and saw wet, red blotches. His eyes looked up, alternating between Derek and Thomas. Thomas rushed over and inspected the marks. They weren't deep. “Are you okay?” Thomas asked him, glancing back at Derek.  
“Yeah, I'm okay,” Danny reassured him.  
“For now,” Derek added.

Thomas turned around, enraged. “No, not _for now_ ,” he growled, pointing his finger right in Derek's face. “What the fuck is going on here?”

“I was just giving Danny here an opportunity to explain why he was informing on us for Peter,” he said.

Thomas looked at him as if he were insane. “What are you talking about?”

“It's true,” said Danny, eyes downcast.  
“What?” Thomas asked in disbelief.

Derek intervened, “I took an ID from the guy who tried to kill Stiles. There were only three people who saw it. Stiles and I, and the third was Danny. When we got to the ranch in Arizona, I asked Danny to do some research, create a profile with his vitals and anything he could find online, then file it away, in case we ever needed it.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Thomas asked.  
“That guy was the security guard at the building Isaac blew up.”  
“So? He worked for the company,” shrugged Thomas.  
Derek looked at him unbelievingly, “That's a hell of a coincidence. He didn't even live in Seattle when we met him.”

“Isaac didn't know the identity of the guy who tried to kill Stiles,” said Derek, “Only Stiles, Danny, and I did. I didn't leak the information. Stiles didn't either. He wouldn't have,” said Derek, “He's the one who wanted to spare his life.”

“Scott,” Derek called out.  
“Yeah?” Scott asked, hanging around the obliterated doorway.  
“Who did you text about our detour?”  
“Stiles and Danny,” said Scott. “I didn't mention it to Isaac. Like I said, our texts have been pretty... limited, recently.”

Derek continued, “I certainly didn't tell anyone about our trip to see that stupid fucking Big Foot statue,” he said, “So that leaves Stiles or Danny who knew about that "coincidence," and Stiles hates Peter. He wouldn't be chatting with him, hell, I doubt he even has his number.

“Are you seriously saying Danny tried to have you and Scott killed?” Thomas asked defensively.

Thomas looked over at Danny who started to cry. “Is it true?” Thomas asked. Danny shook his head no. Thomas passed by Derek and put his arm around Danny's shoulder, and Derek, feeling little sympathy at the moment, crossed his arms, his eyebrow arched.

“You see?” Thomas said, “Maybe Scott forgot he'd told Isaac. Maybe Isaac was the one who told him about your detour.”

“No,” said Danny, “I told Peter about the guy who tried to kill Stiles. His name was Jeffrey, by the way. And-” He paused, “Yes, I told him about the detour. But I swear I didn't know what he was going to do.”

“What?” asked Thomas unbelievingly, as Derek gave him a sideways glance.

“So what do you want to do about this?” Derek asked Thomas.

“Wait,” Danny said quickly, “I need to explain before you do anything.”  
“I think we've heard enough,” Derek said, his voice tempered, but his claws still extended.  
Scott put his hand on Derek's shoulder, “Let him explain.”  
Scott made eye contact with Danny who nodded appreciatively through his tears.  
Derek put his claws away, “All right,” he said.

Danny tugged down on his shirt, trying to make himself presentable after everything that had just happened. He cleared his throat, “Okay, so I went to work for you,” he said, looking up at Derek, “I didn't want to,” he said, “But the money was good, so I said yes.”  
“Yeah, I've got that part,” interrupted Derek, “Why don't you get to something useful and stop wasting my time?”  
“Well,” Danny started, “The day before you and Stiles arrived at the ranch I was at the GameStop in Show Low picking up a new video game for one of the consoles. I bought it, left, and tried to back the truck out, but when I was backing out, a car stopped right behind me, blocking me in. So I waited there a few seconds, thinking maybe they were waiting for a car to pull out a little farther down or something. I didn't know. But I couldn't see anything going on, and after a few more seconds I hit my horn because they were starting to piss me off.”

“You honked at a driver in Arizona?” asked Thomas.

“Yeah,” Danny smirked, seeming amused, though Derek wondered if it wasn't just put on to unwind the tension in the room. He grew more annoyed when one of Thomas' crew interjected.

“What does that mean? Do people not use their horns in Arizona?”  
“No,” said Thomas, “It's just that it takes a lot to use it. Everyone there has a gun and most of them are fucking crazy.”

“Yeah, alright enough!” Derek yelled, putting his hands up to silence the completely unrelated aside. Derek stared down at Danny, then lifted his shoulders and nodded his head as if to ask, “And, was there something else?”

Danny at first distracted by the outburst to be quiet, snapped out of it. “So, I honked, and the car didn't move. I waited a few more seconds, and still nothing, so I got out of the truck. Then the other car's door opened. It was Mike.”

“Mike?” Thomas asked, “As in Mike from Seattle?”  
Danny nodded.  
“Did you know him?” Derek asked.  
“No,” said Danny, “I'd never met him before in my life. I didn't know who he was.”

“So what did he want?” Derek pressed.

“Well, he got out, and I thought there was going to be some kind of fight, but he didn't really walk that way towards me. He tried to shake my hand and was like, 'You must be Danny.' And I was like, 'Whoa, slow your roll little man, How do you know who I am?' So then he tells me Peter sent him and he had a message for me.”

“What did he tell you?” Derek asked.

“He told me that Peter was working to help us but everyone was doing their own thing and no one agreed on how to deal with the threat. He told me that I didn't have to worry, but Peter might once and a while ask me for information because I was so involved with this side of the operation and that I knew a lot. I told him I'd have to run it by you first before I just gave out any information.”

“Which you didn't,” Derek pointed out.

“No, no I didn't,” he admitted, “Because Mike told me that I shouldn't, and that I shouldn't worry because they were making sure that my mom remained safe as long as I helped them from time to time. At first I thought about punching him in the face and telling him to walk away, but then he pulled out his phone and showed me a story about a Jeep exploding in Beacon Hills. He told me how it was better to have extra protection these days.

So I said okay. We parted ways, and I didn't really think about it because Peter never really asked anything much. He stopped by before the Folkmoot to say hi, and he saw the ID, asked me about it, and I told him. He asked me to scan it to him so he could do some research. It seemed like a small enough thing to ask, so I did. Other than that, the only other questions he sent me were pretty innocent.”

“Like how to find Scott and me so he could murder us?” Derek asked.

“No,” Danny said, slapping his hands against his knees in frustration. “It wasn't like that. But I guess it was my fault,” he admitted, lowering his head. “All he asked was whether you'd be back to San Francisco soon. I didn't think anything of it, so I just mentioned you might be a little while because you were going to see some Big Foot statue, and then take the coastal highway down.”

Derek glared over at Scott, who shrugged his shoulders, asking why he should feel responsible for not knowing their field trip would turn into an ambush. He had told Danny about it, but how was he supposed to know that would get passed along to someone trying to kill them. If he had, why would he? It's not like they hadn't attacked him too. Scott just let it go. He was just looking for someone to let his anger out on.

“Well Danny,” Derek said slowly, “I think it's time to discuss how we part ways. Out of respect for your honesty only, I think it would be best if you left. What you do after is no concern of mine, unless it involves us or Peter. If any action you take damages us in any way, and I find out about it,” he paused, “I will end your life.”  
Scott could tell by Derek's demeanor that he was trying his best to keep his rage in. He wanted to kill Danny then and there, but he was trying to take a measured approach.

“Wait,” said Thomas, “Think about this Derek. Danny is incredibly gifted with computers. He's an asset to us.”  
“He's a liability, and has proved himself to be a rather reliable one,” Derek responded.  
“But why?” asked Thomas, “The 'why' is because they're threatening his mother. Bring her here. We have room,” he said, “Look, he should have told you. He should have told us, but if that's the only reason he did it, then remove the reason and retain an asset.”

Thomas looked over briefly at Danny. His eyes didn't hold much hope but they seemed to try and say that at least he was trying.

Derek paused for a moment, considering it, then shook is his head, “No. I need all hands on deck here. Who would get her?” Scott raised his hand, meekly trying to join the conversation, “Stiles,” he offered. Derek looked at him like he was insane. Scott shrugged, “Well, he's out that way. All he has to do is go to Danny's mom's house, pick her up, and drive her here.”

“She's under surveillance,” Derek said, “They might even be guarding her.”

“He's closer than we are and he can handle it,” Scott reassured him, “He can always go with Deaton and Maria for backup.”

Derek wasn't sure. He took his Blackberry out and sent a text.  
“You're not to leave this house until we retrieve your mother,” he said, not bothering to look up from his message. He held out his hand, “Give me your phone.” Danny handed it over. Derek went underneath the desk and pulled out the Ethernet cable connecting Danny's computer to the wall. “You don't communicate with anyone outside these houses until further notice,” he said.

He stomped out of the room, ignoring Thomas who tried to mouth a silent “Thank you,” to him.  
__

A day later, and Stiles was near the edge of the woods in Beacon Hills. Deaton and Maria had come with him, offering to help, but he asked them to hold back and only help if they thought he needed it. Deaton seemed surprised by that. 

Stiles was feeling more confident in his own abilities, he recognized that now. But Maria told him that while he was making progress and they'd honor his request, he should remember not to get cocky. Stiles remembered, and tried to keep it in his head. He was cocky. He knew that. He wondered how many times coach had said he'd wanted to wipe, what he described as, “that shit-eating grin” off his face.

He thought back to the days since the rocks and Maria's tea stunt. It seemed so long ago, and yet, really only a couple of weeks had passed. He'd learned a lot about “magic,” or “sorcery,” or “witchcraft,” or whatever anyone wanted to call it. They used the terms interchangeably, ignoring any difference among them. They simply needed a word to indicate what couldn't be defined by a word anyhow.

He thought back to the day when Deaton and Maria introduced him to whispering.  
“What's that?” he'd asked, when Deaton mentioned it as they sat around the campfire.  
“It's how you learn to communicate with animals and nature,” Deaton explained.  
“Wouldn't speaking at a normal volume make it more effective?” he replied sarcastically. He let out an Ow! as Maria reached over and slapped him upside the head.

“No, _tonto_ , it wouldn't,” Maria said. “Think about all the people at your school, all the people in Beacon Hills, on the television, everywhere. All people ever do is talk- talk talk talk talk talk. And they never say anything.”

Stiles nodded his head, granting that point.

“But what do people say when they whisper?” Maria asked. She leaned in, her voice barely carried on her breath, “They say important things, the things they fear others might hear because they're suddenly telling their truth.”

She leaned back, her voice returning to normal, “Animals whisper. All of them. Some pretend to talk, like Parrot. And do you know what the funny thing about Parrot is?”

“No, I have no idea,” Stiles conceded.

Maria settled down, “People laugh at Parrot because he talks like a human but does not know what he's saying. They think it's funny. They're convinced that when _they_ talk, _they_ are actually saying something, actually thinking, and that the bird is just an idiot, an amusement. But they never ask themselves if maybe Parrot is just making fun of them. Parrot whispers too.”

“So what do I do?” asked Stiles, “Do I just go up and whisper to a dog? Or I know, maybe a horse!," Stiles stopped himself, “Oh but wait, that's already been done for television, hasn't it?”

Maria raised her stick and asked him if he wanted a real slap on the head. Stiles declined, and permitted himself to close his mouth.

“If I may make an observation,” said Deaton, “You presume to try by doing, by just whispering to some creature and seeing if it works. If not, you think you'll try something else until you get somewhere. But the crucial point is you don't know how to whisper. Sometimes you have to learn by listening. Maybe you could learn by listening like a baby learns to talk...by listening to people who already do.”

“What, are you saying I'm a baby now?” asked Stiles.  
“Sometimes the comparison is not far off,” Deaton replied.  
Stiles shook his head, “So what? I go find a turtle, or a falcon, or something else and just wait for it to talk to me?”

It was Maria's turn this time. “Don't presume because you want to communicate with something, it wants to communicate with you. If you want to whisper, you need to have some connection with the animal, and you are too foolish to know if you have one.”

Stiles rolled his eyes, offended, bur Maria ignored him.

“Like all things, you need to sit, and be still. Many animals want to whisper with you. They will give you all of their gifts, if you let them, and the ones who can help you the most will come to see you, and then you must show them you are ready by giving them respect.”

“Alright, fine,” said Stiles, “What do I have to do?”  
Maria stamped the ground with her stick, “I already told you, _idiota_ ,” She huffed, “You have a hard time listening even to people, don't you?” Maria crooked her neck towards the woods, “Go find a place by yourself, and sit there until you've whispered.”

Stiles got up, tired of listening to Maria being condescending. “Fine,” he said, as he walked off towards the tree line. He passed into the shade cast by the leaves and branches and stopped for a moment. He realized he was still caught up in the prior conversation. He wanted to be caught up in it, but after a month of all this, he knew it would be a waste to do so. Maria had said he didn't listen, but he did. When she'd said he had to sit, he understood that didn't just mean to physically sit. He had to be in the present, and right now he was fighting with Maria and the past.

Stiles found a rock and sat down. He struggled to let go, despite knowing he must. The simplest things were often the most difficult, and the thought of that made the exercise more difficult still. He sat there for over an hour, flicking his thumbs. He'd finally managed to get it all off his mind. He was focused on what was around him. 

Then, not much longer, a rabbit appeared a little ways off. Stiles noticed it, and gave a start. _Yes_ , he thought, _Okay, so the first animal is going to be a rabbit_. Stiles waited a bit, watching as the rabbit hopped around. _It's taking its time_ , he thought in a sarcastic tone, _Don't be hasty_ , he admonished himself. 

When the rabbit got a bit closer, seemingly unscared of Stiles who was now stone-still. Stiles finally decided to get up and greet the hare. He raised himself up cautiously, slowly, palms open as if he were saying, “I come in peace.” He took a gentle, cautious step towards the rabbit, the leaves cracking softly beneath his foot. But much to Stiles' disappoint, the rabbit spooked, and bolted away.

“Goddammit,” Stiles muttered, before returning to his rock. He sat there again for some time, trying to return his mind to the present from each perturbing thought that passed his way. His concentration was broken though, when he spotted a shadow out of the corner of his eye. It was off in the distance, but Stiles kept his eyes fixed on the ground. He didn't move a muscle. The shadow didn't move, but in Stiles' mind, someone had to, eventually. He looked up in its direction.

It was a stag, frozen in motion. And it disappeared nearly as fast as Stiles had time to look up at it. Stiles sighed, clasping his hands together, resting his arms on his legs, back hunched over as he continued to sit on the rock in frustration. "This is pointless," he mumbled to himself.

But if Stiles thought he'd remained still for the other animals, he learned there was another level of still that could be achieved. He froze, even scared to breathe, at the sound of a bee flitting around his head. He was terrified of bees. He wouldn't use that word to describe his disposition, but if something makes a man freeze up, unwilling to move a muscle, it's probably more than a slight dislike. Stiles had never been stung by a bee, and he was hoping to keep it that way. He closed his eyes. It was better not to see it. But he could still hear it. It didn't seem to want to go away. _It's more afraid of me than I am of it_ , he repeated over and over in his head, like some sort of mantra.

Then he felt just the slightest change of pressure on his right shoulder as the buzzing stopped. He opened his eyes just a little and turned his head. The bee had landed on his shoulder. He wanted to squash it, but he was afraid of getting stung on his hand, or worse, missing him, and getting stung in revenge somewhere else.

He closed his eyes again, determined to remain still, trying to clear his mind of anxiety. _He'll leave soon enough_ , he thought, _I'm the same as the rock I'm sitting on, for all he's concerned_.

The bee fluttered into the air, and Stiles wanted to be relieved by its apparent departure. But instead of flying off, it circled around his head, causing him to panic again. This time it landed on his left shoulder. But this time it didn't stay still. It started to move around, agitating its body, and Stiles worried that it was getting ready to do the deed, to plunge its stinger right into him.

But it didn't. It flew up into the air and landed on the top of his right ear. And it was calm. Stiles breathed in slowly to try and steady himself. It may have ranked among the most difficult things he'd ever done. He could feel the fuzz of the bee on his ear and he imagined it slowly crawling into his ear canal.

Stiles got his panic under control. _Worst case scenario I spook him and he stings me_ , he thought, _It's just a bee sting, it happens to people all the time. Why am I so scared? I don't even get this scared of needles_.

He calmed down a bit, just focusing on his breaths, like he'd learned. Then he had the idea that he should switch his attention to the feel of the bee nestling on the top of his ear. He sat there, thinking about the sensation of the fur, the legs curled around, the feather-light weight of the thorax resting on him. And he felt suddenly that he was doing well. The thing about concentrating on the present like that, is if you do it right, often the passage of time has no meaning anymore. And after a while Stiles had no idea how much time had passed, and he didn't much care that he had no idea. It was the rarest of phenomena, because of his fear of bees, but also because of his attention disorder, which he'd noticed was fading as he gradually learned to sit still. The fact that he'd been in such an uncomfortable situation and managed to pull it off was amazing. 

The two sat for a while longer. Then Stiles breathed out a sigh, a slight smile spread across his lips. He chuckled at the thought of himself sitting in the middle of the forest with a bee on his ear. Then the bee lifted into the air and it flew forward. Stiles remained seated, unsure what to do. The bee circled back, going 'round his head before flying forward again, as if to lead him.

Stiles got up off his rock and did just that. The bee led him farther into the forest, until Stiles slowed down at the sound of buzzing everywhere. It was a hive, high up in a tree. There were hundreds of bees swarming all around. His anxiety, gone from his time with the single bee, understandably returned. He stopped on the edge of the clearing, his heart racing. The little bee, swirled around his head again, then took off into the hive. 

Stiles panicked at his sudden disappearance, but the bee came back out only a couple of seconds later, flitting among the others who swarmed around the hive. Then it came back to Stiles and landed on his shoulder. Stiles watched as some of the other bees banded together, and seemed to fly in formation. He had no idea what was going on. He'd never seen anything like it, and didn't suppose many people had.

He tried to calm his mind from all of the racing thoughts, the stories of people dying from bee attacks. He was in over his head and he had no idea what to do. Somehow though, the bee on his shoulder made him feel reassured. Then Stiles watched in amazement at the sight of two small sticks, twigs really, floating through the air towards him, gripped all along their length by bees flying together. They dropped them at his feet, then departed.

Stiles didn't know what to make of it. _Do I say thank you_? He asked himself, bewildered as he looked down at them, unsure of what to do. But suddenly he had one of those rare, delicious moments in which things came together. _Yes_ , he thought, _that's exactly what I should do_. He paused, because he felt silly, but he knew at least enough from Maria that just saying something wouldn't do anything. He had to whisper it. So he did. He bowed his head, and swung his arm in the air, bringing his hand down to cover his heart. He fell to his knees on the forest floor, and leaned down, touching his head to the ground. Then he got back up, and did it again, turning to do so in each direction.

He finally got up, wondering if he'd done anything useful, or if he'd just made himself look like an idiot in front of a bunch of bees. But it must have evoked something, because as he finished, bees started flying over, one at a time, to sit on the ends of the two sticks. They secreted honey onto them, covering the ends . They stopped once the tips were coated and Stiles, for good measure, decided to thank you once again, and repeated his whisper of the sentiment.

Then the bee who had been with him since the beginning lifted off his shoulder. Stiles picked up the two sticks, and the bee took off, beckoning him to follow, and he led him back to the rock where he'd been sitting. The bee swirled around him as he held the two sticks, then flew back to its hive, leaving Stiles alone. He waved goodbye as he left.

He decided to head back to Deaton and Maria, who both rose to their feet as they saw him walking into the campsite. He felt kind of silly returning with a couple of sticks, ends covered in honey, but neither of the two made fun of him for it

Maria found some cling film and handed it to Stiles, “Here,” she said, “You may want to wrap the sticks to keep the honey from dripping or rubbing off. Stiles nodded, and started to tear off a piece of the plastic wrap. “Wait,” said Maria, as she touched the honey on one of the sticks, “Open your mouth.” Stiles hesitated. It was one of the odder things she'd asked, but he decided to do so, trusting her. She took her finger and turned it upwards, putting it into his mouth as she rubbed a little of the honey against his palate while Stiles' eyes wandered, looking around in confusion.

She took her finger out of his mouth. “Thanks?” he asked, feeling slightly violated. She held up her finger to shush him, “Don't speak, just wrap each of the sticks up, then come sit with us.” Stiles did just that and Deaton handed him some tea. Stiles nodded in thanks, sitting down on a log.

“It looks like you made contact with another creature,” Maria started. “That is good,” she added. “We want to ask you a few questions, and if you can keep your answers to only one or two words,” she paused, “We'll talk more about it later.” Stiles nodded that he understood.

Deaton was the first to offer a question, “With whom did you whisper?”  
“A bee,” said Stiles, his throat dry as he sipped a little of the tea.

“Why do you think Bee came to see you?” Maria asked.  
“I was lonely,” Stiles said.  
“And sad,” he added.  
Deaton nodded, “And what do you think Bee came to tell you about?”  
“Community,” Stiles responded.  
“What else,” Maria pressed.  
“Home,” Stiles said without hesitation.  
“Is Bee mean?” asked Deaton.  
Both he and Maria were taken aback, when Stiles' eyes filled up with tears, before overflowing. He wiped them away, “No,” he cried, “He loves flowers.”  
“What happens when his home is attacked?” asked Deaton.  
Stiles looked at him darkly before his eyes softened. “He defends it, with a fury, because hell or high water, it's home. He'll die before he has no home.”

Maria and Deaton sat back a minute, exchanging glances. Stiles didn't even notice. He was still gazing off somewhere. It was to be expected for all he'd been through. 

“How did you whisper?” asked Maria.  
Stiles broke out laughing, “I danced,” he said almost maniacally.

Maria nodded. “You don't dance much, do you?” she asked.

“No,” Stiles managed, heaving through his laughter, “No, I don't.”

Stiles calmed down, and Deaton and Maria finally stopped their interrogation, switching back to normal conversation.

“Stiles,” said Deaton, “You've met your first spirit animal.”  
“Well a bee isn't technically a-” Maria raised her stick as she nodded her head back and forth. Stiles stopped.  
“Are you saying my spirit animal is a bee?” he asked.  
Deaton looked him up and down. “People think that a spirit animal represents them, that they're somehow the animal manifestation of them. That could not be more wrong. Spirit animals know us for who we are, and they often show qualities we lack. We told you that nature is generous. People don't choose their spirit animals. They're chosen by them, and it's not because of what they share in common, but the wisdom the animal can impart to you. You can have lots of spirit animals over time.”  
“Depending on how much help you need,” Maria said, looking Stiles up and down herself this time.

“So what's with the sticks?” Stiles asked, his hands plunged into his pockets.

“They're a gift,” said Maria, “It's up to you to use them as you will.”

“We have a task for you,” Deaton said. Stiles looked up quickly in anticipation.

“We need you to go to Danny's house and get his mother,” said Deaton.  
Stiles sunk at the sound of the mundane task, “Okay,” he replied, “At least maybe I can use their shower before we leave.”  
“There may be people guarding her,” added Deaton.  
Stiles shrugged, “I'll figure it out.”  
Deaton handed him the keys to the car, and Stiles got up to leave.  
“Wait,” said Maria suddenly, “You have to add something to the gift.”  
“Like what?” Stiles asked.  
“I can't tell you that,” Maria said.  
Stiles stood there a moment, then muttered an, “Okay, I'll do it when I get to Beacon Hills” before starting to head off.  
“Wait,” said Deaton this time. Stiles turned around, impatient.  
“We'll come with you,” he said.

The three left their camp and drove to Beacon Hills. They stopped at a Walmart on their way. Among some food items, Stiles bought something for his gift: strings of purple glass beads. He glued them around the end of the sticks that were covered in honey.

“Why the beads?” asked Deaton.  
“Because they represent the hive, and the individuals bound together,” said Stiles.  
“Why the color purple?”  
“Because purple is the color of royalty,” said Stiles, “And the gift came from the Queen,” he added, recalling how the bee who'd come to see him had disappeared into the hive before returning to him.  
Deaton and Maria nodded in approval.

__

Stiles snapped out of his daydream as he returned to the present: Beacon Hills. He looked down at the house across the street. Danny's mom's house. It was cute. Small, but cute. It was green with white stone accents and a sloped roof with white trim.

Stiles looked up and down the street, his head cloaked. At the ranch he'd half joked about a poncho for himself, and was touched when Deaton made him a dark green hooded cape. He smirked under the hood's shadow. There was a car, a black SUV not far off. Stiles knew what that meant.

He walked out of the woods, crossing the street. His cloak flapped around him. He headed straight for the door and pressed the bell. A brief wait, then a slow, reluctant creaking door opened just a crack to reveal a set of blue eyes and a suspicious, haunted-sounding voice. “Who are you?” the eyes asked.

“I'm Stiles. I'm a friend of Danny's,” he said.  
“Now's not a good time.”  
“Now's the perfect time,” said Stiles.  
“They're coming,” she said frantically as she slammed the door.  
Stiles leaned into it, imagining her on the other side, leaning against just like him, “They're coming and they'll go, and then so will we. I'm taking you away from here.”

Stiles could hear the slam of the two SUV doors and the _clop clop clop_ of the heavy shoes of very serious, very determined men, walking as very serious, very determined men do. He smiled as he pulled out his gift. He began rubbing the sticks and beads over one another and began to dance.

The smaller of the men started laughing, “This guy's fucking nuts. Probably just some homeless kid trying to get some change. She already closed the door on him. Let's go back.”  
The other one shook his head, “We still got to check it out.”  
The smaller one just shrugged, “Okay,” as they continued to head towards Stiles, who, for all intents and purposes, did in fact look deranged.  
“Excuse me sir,” the larger man said, his tone forceful and unamused.  
Stiles stopped what he was doing and looked up, grinning, at the much larger, angry man.  
“I told you he was crazy,” the small one whispered to the other.  
“Shut up,” the larger one muttered, before returning his attention to Stiles.

“Sir, it's time for you to leave.”  
“No,” said Stiles, “It's time for you to leave.”  
The two men looked at each other disbelievingly. The smaller man, who was still far larger than than Stiles, poked him in the chest. “We're not leaving. What are you going to do about it, hobbit boy? Why don't you take your silly cloak, and get the fuck out of here before I send you home with a black eye?”

Stiles should have been intimidated, but instead he just started laughing.

“Alright, listen friend,” said the bigger one, putting his arm around Stiles, squeezing him tightly, “Now I know you seem a little off, and you seem like you're going through some stuff, but luckily for you,” he squeezed him extra hard, “I'm in a good mood. So do yourself a favor and go home and play World of Warcrafting, or whatever it is you kids do these days.”

Stiles looked up at him with doe eyes. “But, my friends are coming over.”  
“What friends?” the large man asked.  
Stiles pointed up into the sky behind the two men.  
“Oh shit!” they both shouted at once. The larger man instantly let go of Stiles and the two tried to bolt for their car, but a large, black swarm of bees descended on them. Stiles immediately began to do the same motions he'd made when the bees gave him the sticks, and then the bees relented. They hovered a moment, then left the two men lying motionless on the asphalt.

Stiles knocked on the door of the house again. It opened much more quickly this time. “We should go,” he said. The eyes stared at him, wide and fearful, but then the fingers clutching the door pried it open furtger, revealing a stout woman, with tan skin and black hair, “Okay,” she said hesitantly. Stiles paused a moment. The lady in front of him wasn't what the blue eyes at the crack in the door had suggested. But she did, in fact, have blue eyes and they contrasted strikingly with her darker features. He realized he'd never seen a picture of Danny's mother, much less met her.

“Actually, come in first,” she said, “I just want to gather my things.”  
“Alright,” said Stiles, “But hurry,” he added as he closed and locked the door.

He pulled back one of the curtains and saw Maria and Deaton crouched over the two men lying in the street. Danny's mother came back downstairs after a couple of minutes with an overnight bag dangling from her arm. 'Alright, let's go,” she said. They went outside, Danny's mom turning to lock the door before they crossed the street.

“How are they doing?” Stiles asked as Maria and Deaton got up from the ground. “Well, they're not dead,” said Deaton. “I found a phone in one of their pockets. I'm going to call 911, and then we need to get out here.”  
“Are you sure they're okay?” asked Danny's mom looking at the men whose faces and hands were covered in red bumps, swollen from the stings.  
“They're both breathing, so they don't appear to be severely allergic. It takes roughly ten bee stings for every pound of someone's weight to be fatal. Judging by these gentlemens' sizes, they weren't stung enough times. Stiles called them off soon enough.”  
Danny's mom nodded, reassured, and they headed off into the woods towards the car. Deaton called 911 and then threw the phone into the grass. They heard the sirens approaching as they reached the sedan parked on a forest road a little farther on. Just as quickly as they'd arrived, they were gone, and headed to San Francisco.

As they headed down the highway, Deaton broke the silence in the car. Stiles was staring out the window, as was Danny's mom. Maria sat in the passenger seat, going to town on her nails with an emery board.  
“That was pretty impressive what you did back there,” Deaton told Stiles, glancing up at him through the rear view mirror.

Stiles who was leaning forward to get a better view of the passing town sighed and leaned back into his seat, “Yeah, yeah it was, wasn't it?” he asked smugly, before adding, “I guess that's why they call me 'The Bee Keeper.”  
“No one calls you that,” Deaton said flatly.  
“Ha!” cried Maria, “Want to guess why they call Deaton, 'Little D?'”  
Deaton looked over at her, “Do you want to play Maria?”  
“That's why they call me a player,” Maria countered.  
“Nobody calls you that,” said Deaton.  
“Pshht, whatever,” Maria said, going back to her emery board, “Pull over soon, I want a sandwich.”  
Deaton huffed, “Of course you do, Maria,” before relenting, “Fine, I'll stop at an Arby's.”  
“Market Fresh Sandwiches,” Maria whispered, her eyes as big as saucers. She began to make an “Omm” like noise as she circled her tongue around her wide open mouth, and Deaton recoiled.

“Oh gross,” said Deaton, “It's like driving with Jabba the Hutt.”  
“You know those sandwiches look healthy, but they're like 800 calories, right?” Stiles asked from the back.  
“That's why I'm only getting two of them,” Maria said, lighting up a cigarette.  
Stiles just laughed, “You're amazing Maria.”  
“Thank you,” Maria said appreciatively, “You may have my second sandwich's order of curly fries.”  
“Mmm, curly fries,” said Stiles, who started mimicking Maria's lip-licking reaction to the market fresh sandwiches. Maria joined him in unison a second later, as Deaton sighed in exasperation. The two stopped a few seconds later and broke out into laughter. Stiles turned to look at Danny's mom as he chuckled, then slowly stopped. She looked as if she were thinking she'd just walked into a mobile asylum.

“Sorry,” said Stiles apologetically, “Full disclosure: this is pretty standard though.”  
She stared at him blankly, “Okay,” she said, before turning back to look straight ahead. “Ummm, so my name's Meka. It's nice to meet all of you.”  
“Yeah, whatever,” Maria said lazily, scratching at her emery board.  
“Maria, don't be rude,” Stiles said, suddenly feeling bad they hadn't included her at all.  
“You call me rude now? You must not like curly fries no more.”  
“No, I'm sorry Maria, I just meant, please be nice to Meka. She's our guest.”  
“Hmmm ok,” Maria relented, “Hi Meka,” she said in a saccharine voice, “That's a pretty name. Where are you from?” she asked casually.  
“I'm Hawaiian,” Meka said coolly.  
“That's cool,” Maria said distractedly. “Oh Deaton! There's an Arby's at the next exit,” She pointed to the sign they were passing. “So anyway, what do you do Meka?”  
“I'm a therapist,” she replied in a soft-spoken, diplomatic manner.  
“I'm really sorry,” Stiles whispered to Meka, “She doesn't mean it. She's just.... abrupt, and offensive, and... just an overall rude person,” Stiles tallied the traits on his fingers. “But she does have some redeeming qualities,” he added reassuringly.  
Meka didn't respond. She just looked back at him with a blank stare.

Despite Deaton's apparent reluctance to stop for food, he seemed to enjoy his meal just as much as Maria and Stiles. Meka sat with them, eating a salad, but didn't particularly engage with anyone. Maria probably found it annoying, which was why she was acting like her usual self. But Stiles knew Meka must be terribly preoccupied thinking about Danny and wondering how he was. Stiles, though, didn't feel the need to inform her of the circumstances under which they'd come to rescue her.  
“Danny's going to be so happy to see you,” he assured her, “He keeps saying how much he misses you.”  
Meka smiled at him, “I miss him too. I'm so relieved he's doing okay. She paused, “He is doing okay, right?”  
“Oh yeah,” nodded Stiles, as if the question didn't need to be asked, “No, he's great.”  
Meka nodded, smiling a little more, and she seemed to pick at her salad a little more eagerly.

Maria and Deaton both noticed Stiles' gesture, and it made Deaton proud of him, just as it made Maria start to feel slightly remorseful for being so mean to Meka.

“Hey,” Stiles said distractedly, pointing to Deaton. “You know, I was thinking about your comment earlier. 'Driving with Jabba,' that could be like a reality TV show, where someone drives Jabba around and interviews him about his opinions on current events, daily Hutt wisdom, what he's been up to.”

Deaton stopped mid-chew, then swallowed. “You realize Jabba the Hutt isn't real right? That's kind of a big requirement with the whole reality TV premise, as fake as it is anyway.”

“Well, I mean, yeah,” said Stiles defensively, “I just meant more like in the style of a reality show. You know, like that British series Carpool. But it could just be Jabba, all the time.”  
“Mmm,” Maria nodded, mouth full, “I like the episode with Jo Brand. She's my favorite.”  
“I quite like her myself,” said Meka, spearing a cherry tomato.  
Maria nodded, seeming pleased.  
“Okay sport, well you just keep working on that concept,” Deaton said to Stiles, as he took another bite.

The four of them drove the rest of the way to the townhouses and Meka jumped out of the car the moment she saw Danny waiting for them at the door. He grabbed her in a big hug as she reached him. “Oh I missed you Danny,” she said. “I missed you too,” he replied, as he ushered her into the building.

Stiles followed, looking for Derek, but was instead met by Scott. “Hey bud!” Scott said beaming, leaning back, his arms open wide. Stiles went in for the hug. It felt so good to see Scott again. He could tell Scott felt the same way as he wrapped him up tight. He'd missed his best friend.

The two pulled apart and Stiles had to ask, “Hey, do you know where...”  
“Derek is?” asked Scott. Stiles nodded. “He's in his room. Second floor.”  
“I'll be back in a bit,” Stiles said, patting Scott's chest, as he barreled up the steps.

Stiles made it to the second landing and found the door to Derek's bedroom open. The lights were off, but he was sitting in front of his computer, silhouetted by the light of the monitor. He turned around, “Hey Stiles,” he said, warmly, as he got out of his chair to go greet him. He walked over to Stiles and kissed him.

“I'm glad you're back,” he said pulling away.  
“I'm glad I am too,” said Stiles.

“Your trip went okay?” Derek asked.  
“Yeah,” said Stiles, “Without a hitch.”  
“Good,” said Derek, “I'm sorry to put you in that predicament.”  
Stiles cocked his head, not understanding, “What do you mean?”  
“I mean, I didn't mean to put you in any danger,” Derek explained.  
Stiles looked left and right, “I wasn't in any danger. I actually kicked ass. You should have been there!.”  
“I'm sorry I wasn't,” Derek said, putting his hands on Stiles' shoulders. “That way I could have taken care of it myself, and not exposed you to all that. But I had to stay here. You did an amazing job though.”  
Stiles took a step back, and Derek's arms fell from his retreating shoulders.  
“I can do things, you know,” Stiles said indignantly.  
“I know you can,” Derek reassured him as he tried to calm him down.  
Stiles shook his head, “I'm tired of not being able to do anything. I want to help.”  
“But you are helping. You just did,” Derek said, trying to placate him. “I just don't want to see you get hurt. I can't guarantee I'll always be there to rescue you.”  
Stiles looked at him and scoffed. “Like today? At Meka's house?”  
“That's why I apologized,” Derek said.  
“You know you're unbelievable,” Stiles said, hitting Derek's chest with his finger. “I bet you've never even asked yourself who would be around to rescue you, much less think that it could ever be me.”  
Stiles stormed out of the room.  
“Wait,” said Derek half-heartedly, knowing it was useless to try. He collapsed into his chair, a surrender unnoticed and too late.

He looked up at a knock on the open door. The fist making it belonged to Thomas, who slowly peered around the door frame, completely aware of how awkward the whole situation was. “Do you have a minute?” he asked.

“Yeah Thomas, come on in,” said Derek, righting himself. “What's new?”  
“Hey,” Thomas said, sitting on the edge of the bed, “I just wanted to say I know you didn't have to do what you did for Danny, and I appreciate it,” he said.  
“Believe me Thomas, if it weren't for you being here, things would have turned out quite a bit different for Danny boy,” Derek remarked darkly.  
“And I can assure you,” Thomas said, “That now that his mom is safe, they have nothing over his head, so we're in the clear.”  
“It may be a long time before we're in the clear,” said Derek, “And no offense, but with regards to Danny, you're not in a position to assure me of that.”  
Thomas hunched over slightly, staring at the ground in frustration, “So what do you want?” he asked.  
“Well,” said Derek, “Since I can't seem to get anything I want, I'll have to settle for what I can get. Danny is an asset, you're right. You both work in the same area, you're both very good at it. I want you to work on all projects together. I want him supervised at all times. No phone, and you need to be checking his Internet usage. He's not to use it when you're out of the room, and just in case he tries, I need you to monitor all bandwidth usage, checking for any suspicious or known unfriendly IP addresses.”

“Okay,” Thomas conceded.

Derek shook his head, “Thomas, you can tell me we don't have to worry about him anymore because his mom is safe, but people can hold anything over anyone's head. Maybe he's got a puppy, or some, I don't know, super rare comic book, that he cares the world about. I don't know. People get attached to all kinds of crazy things. But you know what Thomas? The funny thing about trust is it takes years to build, and only one misstep to destroy it all. And here we are, back at ground zero.”

Derek got up, and slapped Thomas on the shoulder before leaning over and whispering into his hear, “So know that if he betrays me again, I will throw him out of the nearest fucking window he finds himself by. Do we have an understanding?”

Derek let go of him and stepped back. Thomas stared back at him, his face emotionless, “Okay.”

“Good!” said Derek loudly, clapping his hands and abruptly changing moods. He walked to the door, “I think it's time to have a family meeting. Let's get everyone together.”


	13. Preparing for War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A long time coming- Sorry to everyone for the wait. It's been a crazy past few months in my life. Not bad or good, just crazy. Thanks for your patience. I never intended to keep anyone waiting this long. Here's chapter 13. The story's about to get preeeeety violent. Thanks again for your patience. Do expect the following chapter to be uploaded in a more timely manner ;).

Fifteen minutes later and the two packs were all gathered in the living room of Derek's townhouse. The door connecting them to the adjacent pack's house was open and some of the members of Thomas' group hung about in the doorway, crowded out by the already-full living room.

“So we have some things to discuss,” said Derek matter-of-factly, as he ran his finger along the mantle of the fireplace as if he were checking for dust. Thomas sat on the couch, his hands clasped together, his elbows resting on his knees. He seemed to be staring off into space, intensely listening to what it was that Derek might say. On the coffee table in front of him lay a manila folder, something he'd brought down for the meeting.

“You're probably already aware,” Derek continued, “But in case any of you missed the gossip, Scott and I were ambushed on our way back from the Folkmoot.”

Most of the people there did not seem surprised, although a couple of them did glance around, as if wondering whether they were the only ones left out.

“It doesn't matter how he came about knowing what route we were taking, but suffice it to say that it was a deliberate attack ordered by my uncle, Peter. The evidence of this is overwhelming, vetted, and verified,” Derek said.

“Why would your uncle try to kill you?” asked one of the werewolves, Helen, leaning against the doorway.

Derek was about to respond, but instead Thomas replied in a cold, far-off voice that eerily matched his distant eyes, “Peter's consolidating his power." His eyes remained glazed over, but he continued, “He won the election at the Folkmoot, and now he's eliminating the one big threat to his political legitimacy- the one person who stands in his way.”

“But what about you? He didn't try to kill you, and you're the one most outspoken against him,” said Helen.

“He eliminated me as a threat by other means,” Thomas replied, “He made me a Vice-President of sorts, a political position with nearly no power. He brought me into the fold and now I can't do anything but either be complicit or object and be ignored.”

Derek pushed off the mantle, pacing lazily around the room. He knew everyone was watching him, even with his back turned as he stopped to look out the window. “Now, we have to move,” he said. “We have to move against him. But the question is how.”

He turned around to face everyone. “We have been working on some possibilities for a while now. Thomas, can you give us a report on what you've been up to?”

Thomas cleared his throat as he reached to pick up the manila folder from the coffee table. He opened it in his lap and quickly began rifling through the documents cradled inside it. He closed the folder once he'd reviewed everything, and placed it, documents and all, back on the table. For a few seconds previously, the sound of the paper ushering quickly from hand to hand had been the only sound in the room as everyone waited for him. Now there was nothing, just silence and anticipation.

“Well,” he began, lacking much of any confidence, “We've made progress in the denial of service attacks which have intermittently shut down PsyNex's website. We have received some criticism, that this is not enough, however. As he said that, Thomas rolled his eyes without realizing it. “I would like to point out, however, that these DNS attacks have proven to be embarrassing to the company, as it demonstrates their cyber-security incompetence to their clients, competitors, and the general public. Furthermore, it has also served as a...” Thomas looked up at Derek, his eyes asking if it was okay to continue. Derek nodded. “It's also served as a distraction for a Trojan that we were able to insert into the company's computer systems while all eyes were turned towards the more obvious attack.”

Maria came into Thomas' field of vision as she bent over and placed some plates of what looked almost like pasties down on the table. “Gorditas, to snack on,” she said quietly, as she retreated back into the kitchen. As good as they smelled, no one touched them. It was too serious of a meeting for anyone to dare. Derek stood there though, arms crossed, as he watched Maria give Stiles a plate of his own at the kitchen table. “ _Solo para tí corazón._ ” He wondered what she meant by that as his attention reverted to Thomas who recovered from the distraction.

“What have you been able to find?” asked Derek.

“Some things useful, and some things not necessarily useful yet,” Thomas replied cryptically. He grabbed the folder and flipped it open again, then shut it almost immediately, almost as a nervous, knee-jerk response. He didn't need the documents inside. He knew the information. “What we do have are bank accounts and financial records tying PsyNex to Peter. They are payments and they only go one way: towards Peter's accounts.”

“What can we do with it?” Derek asked.

“Well, we can do a couple of things,” Thomas replied, “We can use it as evidence against him, and expose the transfers, but the evidence is circumstantial, although pretty damn hard to explain on his part. On the other hand we could also use the information in there to block his accounts.”

“From more transfers from PsyNex?” asked Derek.

“From anyone,” Thomas clarified, “And that goes for money moving in or out of the accounts,” he added. “We can use the account information to start making fake transfers from dubious organizations to freeze the account, and any assets associated with it.”

“How?” asked Scott.

“We use the Bank Secrecy Act to trigger an alert to the Financial Crimes Enforcement Network,” said Thomas.

Scott gave him a blank stare.

“You know how if you make a bank deposit of $10,000 or more, the bank has to report it, right?” Thomas asked. Scott nodded, before adding, "Well, I mean, I haven't ever personally had to deal with that issue, but yeah, everyone knows that."

“Well that's the Bank Secrecy Act, and it requires banks to notify the federal government of _any_ suspicious activity, not just deposits of $10,000 or more,” he said.

“They've really become serious about it since 9/11,” said Deaton, who was standing over in the kitchen by Stiles.

“Exactly,” Thomas continued, “Which is why Peter may find himself inconvenienced when a dubious charity out of Chechnya tries to deposit $75,000 into his account. They'll freeze everything- not just that account, but absolutely everything that's associated with it. He'll be high and dry while they investigate it.”

Derek shook his head, “We know he's working with the government now. He'll have connections. He'll get around it.”

Thomas gave a little shrug as if conceding the point, before making his own, “It may be one single government in theory, but it's not that in reality. You'd be amazed at how indignant bureaucrats can be when another agency tries to step into something they consider their purview. It will take a while to clear up. Trust me.”

Derek nodded, “What else?” he asked.

“We have a lot of emails and files, but they're encrypted. They're all coming from and going to the same two server nodes,” said Thomas, “The trouble is, we can't decrypt any of it. It's too advanced for either Danny or me, but we think it's probably communication with the military or some government agency with access to this level of encryption.”

“We need to know what's in those files,” Derek insisted, “It's not enough that we know they're working together. We need details. We need a smoking gun.”

Stiles looked up from the kitchen table. Derek caught his gaze. Stiles arched an eyebrow, “You know who can help us,” he said suggestively.

Derek broke his stare with a slow blink and a slight nod. Stiles understood the gesture immediately, and several people in the room gave a start as he jumped up and bolted upstairs on his new, yet-to-be-revealed task.

“So what do we do from here?” Thomas asked.

Derek stared down at the coffee table and the folder, now wide open, revealing several documents on top that no one there could read. “We have to wait until we get these decrypted before we do anything definitive,” he said, “However, that doesn't mean we'll be standing still in the meantime.”

He started to pace around the room again, this time his hands pressed together, his fingers intertwined. “Even though Peter won a victory at the Folkmoot, it wasn't by a huge margin. In fact, the margin was surprisingly small considering he had the advantage of name recognition and seniority. What that means is there are a lot of people who did not want to see him take power. Not a majority,” Derek paused dramatically, holding up his finger, “But a very, very healthy number of people. We need to start spreading the rumor that Peter tried to have Scott and me killed,” he concluded.

“It's not a rumor, _mijo_. He _did_ try to have you killed,” Maria opined from the kitchen.

“ _We_ know that, but we don't have any proof yet. So for now, it might as well be a rumor," Derek said, "But the funny thing about rumors is how fast they spread.”

“Like the rumor about how you have an irrational fear of emperor penguins?” asked one of the werewolves in the doorway. Everyone in the room turned first to the door, then to Derek.

“What? Who told you that?” Derek asked confused, as his eyes began darting around the room. He sighed as he heard a loud cackle come from the kitchen. Derek's eyes narrowed, “I'm not afraid of them, they're just...creepy,” he said defensively.

Deaton intervened, realizing how easily Maria could get things off track. “I think Derek is right...obviously not about the penguin thing," he added quickly. "It's best if you begin to spread the word, but drop hints that you think it's true. Don't state it as if it were a fact. When the time comes there will be proof, and by then the seed will have been sown. It will confirm what everyone already 'knew,' so to speak.”

“Start spreading the word to your friends, anyone you know, to as many packs as possible,” said Derek, “Thomas, why don't you take your folder and go see Stiles upstairs?”

Thomas gathered the documents he'd collected and went up to Derek and Stiles' room on the third floor of the house. Ge found it small, but comfortable, with plenty of light and a view of the street, now that Aaron had drawn back the curtains. The floors were made of sandy-colored wood planks, and a paper lantern hung above the full-size bed. It was a stark contrast to the dark, dungeon-like feel of his or Danny's rooms, both of them preferring the cave-like qualities of their own abodes much better.

Stiles was sitting at a desk in the far corner. He had headphones on and his back was facing Thomas as he spoke to someone on the computer screen. Thomas wasn't sure if Stiles heard his knock, until he saw the girl on the monitor say something and point towards the door where Thomas stood. Thomas pursed his lips, unsure of what to say and slightly embarrassed by the feeling that he'd intruded. Stiles took off the headset and beckoned Thomas over. “Can you put those into the scanner's auto-doc feeder for me?” Stiles asked.

Thomas nodded and opened up the folder as Stiles unplugged the headset entirely. Thomas could now hear the background noise in the room of the person Stiles was talking to.

“Lydia, this is Thomas. Thomas this is Lydia,” Stiles said simply.

“Hello!” Thomas heard the girl say cheerfully.

“Hi,” Thomas said in a pleasant, if somewhat uncomfortable manner.

“Lydia's a friend of ours,” Stiles explained. “She's in France right now, on exchange.”

“Mmm,” Thomas murmured, trying to sound interested. 

“So how are you liking it there?” Stiles asked Lydia.

Lydia leaned out of view of the computer's camera for a moment, then reappeared suddenly wearing a beret, “La France est magnifique,” she said. They both cracked a smile as Lydia tossed the hat aside and shook her hair from left to right. Stiles' face still wore a grin, as he admired her beautiful red hair cascading around her shoulders. He wasn't afraid of being obvious. Lydia knew. And they both certainly knew she relished the attention, even if she didn't reciprocate it. The unrequited feelings that used to pester Stiles no longer existed as they once had. He had Derek and wouldn't give him up for anything. He meant ten times what she did to him now, and it wasn't a sin in either of their books to hold someone in admiration.

Stiles glanced over at Thomas, who was busy removing staples from the documents to load them into the scanner. Something about that connection he and Lydia shared without a spoken word, that history, all of it unknown to Thomas, who was standing right next to him, made Stiles giggle. And then Lydia started laughing, which made him giggle more.

“Why are you laughing?” Stiles asked Lydia.

“Because you're such a weirdo,” Lydia replied.

Stiles looked over at Thomas, still working away at the documents with his staple remover. He noticed though, that Thomas now wore a slight grin.

Stiles and Lydia continued to chat away as she recounted all the places she'd been on her exchange. She raved about nearly everything, and told Stiles that he should come to visit as she thought she might extend her time there if the university allowed it. "I'd love that," Stiles said, though he knew by all practical standards it was a nigh-on impossibility.

Then the question came which made Stiles somewhat uneasy, though he should have expected it. He'd carried on the conversation by asking her all about what she had been doing, but it was an eventuality that Lydia would return the favor. “So what have you been up to?” she asked.

Stiles gulped. Lydia had no idea. She'd been practically incommunicado, and had no idea of anything that had happened. “Um, not too much,” Stiles said, scratching behind his ear. He should have known better. Lydia could tell he was nervous, that he was holding back. Stiles watched as her eyes started to dart around the room, “Where are you, actually?” Lydia asked, “That doesn't look like your place.”

“No, well,” Stiles stuttered, “I actually moved to San Francisco,” he explained.

“Oh wow! That's great!” Lydia exclaimed, flipping back her hair over her shoulder, “I just love the city. So many fabulous brunch spots.”

“Because it's filled with gay people,” Thomas injected tersely.

“Exactly,” replied Lydia, glancing at the corner of her monitor towards the out-of-view Thomas.

“It's basically like Sunday mass for homosexuals,” added Thomas, still without a trace of irony in his voice.

"I'm not Catholic myself, but yes, that seems like a fair comparison," Lydia didn't seem to pick up on the sarcasm, but Stiles did as his lip curled upward slightly. “Oh my god,” Stiles exclaimed, camping up his voice. His wrists suddenly turned to Jell-O as he swiveled his chair towards Thomas, “We should go to The Squat and Gobble for brunch this Sunday!”

Thomas snickered, still out-of-view by Lydia, “Oh no honey, we should go to Plow on 18th street.”

Stiles looked back at the screen at Lydia who was clapping her hands together, “What fun names! Yea for brunch!” she squealed. Stiles laughed and then turned serious as he looked over to confirm that Thomas was done being an ass.

“Alright Lydia, the reason I needed to get a hold of you, is that I have some documents that are encoded. Danny and Thomas weren't able to decipher them, so I knew I had to get a hold of you because you're the best.”

“Well, that's true,” Lydia said, tilting her head as she examined her cuticles.

“Can you look at them right away?” Stiles asked, not bothering to hide his concern.

Lydia didn't seem to notice the anxiety in his voice, or at least she pretended not to. “I'm kind of busy right now,” she said disinterestedly, “It could take a while.”

“Please Lydia,” Stiles pleaded desperately, “It's an emergency.”

Lydia pulled out an emery board, “Lack of planning on your part doesn't constitute an emergency on my part.” She began to file away.

Stiles shook his head in disbelief, “It doesn't have anything to do with me not planning...”

“Fine,” Lydia interrupted, “But it will cost you.”

Stiles' head dropped as he let out a deep breath, “What?” he asked.

“A brunch date the next time I come to visit!” she yelled excitedly as she tossed the emery board aside.

Stiles felt a sudden sense of relief. “Okay,” he said, the smile returning to his face, “It's a deal.”

_

 

Downstairs, everyone was still discussing what it was, if anything, they could do to curb the disastrous rise of Peter to his position of power. Helen, the werewolf hanging in the doorway, finally said what had to be said: "So the nerds use their computers to attack their websites and their bank accounts. What are the rest of us supposed to do?"

Derek looked down at the floor and slowly drew in a breath before releasing it with the seriousness that he hoped would come through in the suggestion to follow. "I think we have to go after Peter- I think we have to bite off the head of the snake," he said.

There was some muttering from the people assembled, and it made him worried. He held up his hand, trying to calm the room. "Now, I'm not saying we do it at once," he said, "We should wait until we have some proof from the documents Thomas intercepted, But-"

"And Danny," Thomas said as he descended the stairwell, interrupting Derek, "Danny helped intercept those messages too."

Derek worried Thomas took it as a sign of annoyance that his eyes were now raised towards the ceiling, but they were pointed in that direction because he was praying to Stiles upstairs that he might get those documents unencrypted soon. He knew for certain that they contained the damning evidence he personally didn't need, but that everyone else did.

He lowered his eyes towards Thomas. "Of course, you're right: the documents Thomas and Danny intercepted," he clarified. "And then, once we have proof and we remove Peter from power, we can take on PsyNex. We have the option of fighting two battles at once- PsyNex and Peter. But who wants to fight on two fronts, when we can fight one at a time." Derek looked around the room and some people were nodding, clearly mulling the logic of his strategy. Derek held his breath, hoping that he could finally build some consensus on a plan.

"No," Derek heard Thomas say. The single word rang shrilly in his ears and his heart sank. He watched Thomas sit there, legs crossed, looking cold, as he seemed to ponder the situation on his own, unwilling to be swayed by someone else's assessment of the situation.

Derek's eyes drifted towards the floor. Thomas took that as a sign that he should continue. "I propose we do the opposite," Thomas said bluntly. Derek looked up from the ground, "I fear the one closest to us more than the other," Derek countered quickly.

"So do I,", Thomas said, nodding in agreement. "But he's the stronger of the two threats, I think. We have weapons to use against him, but they are not yet in place. We should attack where we can do damage, and do so without delay. We can use that to build support for what we're doing. If we fight Peter first, PsyNex, the whole government, will watch us rip at each others' throats and be glad to do so.

The two shared a long stare. Derek's eyes didn't threaten him, rather, they were asking Thomas if he knew what he was doing. He wasn't sure if Thomas knew that. Perhaps it was because Thomas' own unbroken stare peered well through Derek and beyond. It conveyed an uncertainty, and not the utter conviction that often accompanies a man who knows he's taking a gamble.

Thomas finally looked back at all the others who waited in what had become an awkwardly silent lull. "I think the best course of action is to attack Psynex first," he confirmed confidently. He glanced over as Derek shook his head, but Thomas remained undeterred. "We have only enough resources to fight one or the other right now, and we still have to wait for the hacked documents to be unencrypted. If we're right, we can strike at Psynex while that's being done, then hopefully have the evidence we need to bring more packs into the fold and counter Peter."

Derek looked around and could tell most everyone made no secret of agreeing with Thomas' train of thought. He couldn't help if almost everyone there was from Thomas' pack, but he also wouldn't deny that the boy made a convincing point. The look from Deaton said it all.

"Alright," Derek said, "Agreed. We'll hit them first. We'll need to draft a strike team while we figure out a target. Who do we know who can be trusted?"

"Well," Thomas said, "Of course anyone here, but otherwise, we could reach out to..."

"The pack in San Jose- Ariel's people," Helen commented from the doorway.

"Ariel's people," Thomas confirmed, his eyes shifting back and forth from Helen to Derek.

Derek nodded, "We could use more."

" Kenneth Quincy's pack," Thomas said, with a tone that betrayed how far-fetched he knew the suggestion to be .

No one in the room said a word, and then Derek asked the obvious question on everyone's mind, "Really?"

"You said you wanted more," Thomas replied defensively.

"I said we needed a strike team, not a goddamned Mongol horde," said Derek, as he shook the suggestion off with a sharp breath and an exasperated shake of his head.

Thomas paused for a moment, knowing he had to choose his words carefully. He looked over at Maya, one of the quieter members of his pack. She sat on the end of the couch, her elbows on her knees, seeming disengaged. Thomas felt a twinge of guilt and he felt that she had every right to be angry with him for even suggesting the Quincy pack. It was only a couple of years ago that she'd come to Thomas' doorstep after her pack had been brutally massacred by Quincy and his people. Thomas remembered how she'd made her way to them, unsure of where to go, after she'd returned home from school to find her entire pack dead.

Thomas never understood exactly what had happened. She'd not been particularly forthcoming with the details, and he'd never pushed her for them. The day after she'd shown up, the local newspaper's website gave enough of a description for him to realize it was probably not a pleasant experience for anyone involved- except perhaps for the Quincy pack. The one thing he did know was Maya harbored a deep, and understandable hatred for Kenneth Quincy.

Thomas looked down at Maya, who still was silent as ever. The room was quiet too, save for the soft sounds of pots and pans being shuffled and shaken in the kitchen. Thomas' breath caught in his throat though, as Maya dropped her hands and sat up, though not quite straight. "I think we should work with the Quincy pack," she said.

No one spoke. All the other members of Thomas' pack knew the back story. They knew what the Quincy pack meant to her, and they were dumbfounded as to why she would want to support Thomas' idea, when they all feared them perhaps only half as much as she did. They knew the stories, and hers was not the only one.

"You can't be serious, can you?" asked Helen, clearly perturbed.

"I am," Maya half-whispered. She cleared her throat, "I hate them, but we need soldiers, and if I know one thing about them, they're good at killing," she said, her voice shaking, "I won't participate. I won't set foot near them. But I say use them, and if one or two of them, or all of them, get killed, good riddance. I won't shed a tear," she said.

Thomas lay his hand on Maya's shoulder, and she looked up momentarily at him as he gave her a reassuring nod.

"Anyone object?" Thomas asked, looking around the room. No one did.

"Alright then," said Thomas, "We'll make arrangements, we'll choose a target, and we'll coordinate with the other packs to put something together. Expect this to be done quickly, within the next few days," he said, "I'll be reaching out to you for your help in putting this all together. Those of you who have reservations about participating in the strike," Thomas glanced down at Maya, and his voice softened, "Let me know." He looked around the rest of the room, sounding more confident again, "There's a place for all of us here."

And just like that, the meeting was over. Everyone went back to what they were doing. Thomas went over to Derek as the room cleared. "Are we on the same page?" he asked the other wolf whose arms were crossed as he watched the last of the pack members disperse. "Yeah," Derek muttered tersely, not giving Thomas much confidence.

"Listen," Thomas said, leaning in and lowering his voice, "I want to make sure we're in this together. I know you don't like the idea, but consider what will happen if we don't have them on our side."

Derek looked him in the eyes, "You think Quincy's pack takes sides?" he scoffed, "Did you ever see them at a Folkmoot?"

"No," Thomas shook his head.

"Exactly," Derek said. "They have no interest in politics except what suits them in the present. They deal with conflicts as they come and when they're ready. They don't have friends. They have no loyalties except to themselves."

"Maybe you're right," Thomas admitted, "But just because we use their help doesn't mean we need to trust them."

"It may be the biggest mistake you ever make," Derek said, "Kenneth Quincy is one of the most ruthless bastards you'll ever meet."

"I know," Thomas replied darkly.

__

The next few days passed quickly as Thomas assembled the forces they'd need. Ariel had come on board, and Thomas appreciated it. They were old friends. He remembered he'd asked her if she was in, and without telling her where, when, or how- details he hadn't yet figured out, she had simply replied, "Whatever you need, we'll be there." It meant a great deal to Thomas. The unconditional response had sent a chill down his spine, the kind that made him tense his shoulders. It grasped at something which he'd felt slipping away from him: the belief that real friends actually existed.

Thomas was a bit more surprised to receive a somewhat positive reply from Kenneth Quincy. It didn't make him feel nearly as tingly inside, but he needed the support. He'd gone to Sacramento to meet with the alpha. His stomach felt like a stone had dropped into it when he'd finally arrived at a warehouse on the outskirts of town. Quincy seemed more than half-beast even in his human form. The dark, dense hairs on his forearms were the first to stand out to Thomas, as his eyes were drawn up towards the werewolf's massive biceps, then to his shoulders, where his neck muscles stood like large hills, supporting the straps of his gray tank-top which allowed Thomas to notice every part of his impressive presence.

Thomas averted his eyes as soon as he realized how obvious he'd been. It wasn't that he was attracted to him, it was that he'd let the other werewolf know he recognized him as more than just an ordinary alpha. Quincy smiled, as he rubbed his stubbled jaw. Thomas wondered if he smiled because he found his inability to play it cool amusing, or if perhaps he was just arrogant enough to be pleased by the obvious admiration. He took some solace in the thought that perhaps the latter were the case.

Their conversation was memorable enough, as Thomas thought back on it:

"Why should I help you?" Quincy asked.

"Because you hate Peter just as much as I do," Thomas replied coolly. He casually sat in the simple chair that was across from Quincy, and managed to cross his legs as he hooked an elbow over the chair's back. Quincy laughed at the transparency of Thomas' attempt to seem relaxed, which made Thomas' face turn a slight shade of pink.

"Peter's none of our concern," Quincy replied.

"Is that why you haven't been at either of the Folkmoots?" Thomas asked.

"We don't play politics," Quincy said dismissively, "We'll leave that to you, little one."

Thomas imagined that if Quincy had been surrounded by his pack, they would have laughed at the gibe, but the two were alone, with no one and nothing to bother him, except for Thomas' own nagging self-doubt that seemed to never leave his side.

"So you'll just do whatever Peter tells you, then?" asked Thomas.

Quincy gave a wry smile as he sat back in his chair, "I don't take orders from anyone."

"You may have a hard time convincing Peter of that when he comes knocking on your door," Thomas replied.

"He could try," Quincy brushed off the remark, "But I think he knows our reputation."

"How long do you think you can keep saying that before he has every pack at his command to make you submit?" Thomas asked. He tried to hide the tremor in his voice, as he clenched his fists, "If you truly think you're invulnerable, then you're a fool, and time will prove it, perhaps sooner than you think."

Quincy leaned forward, "It starting to sound like you're threatening me," he said, his eyes narrowing.

Thomas tried hard not to swallow out of nervousness, "Peter's the one threatening you, not me, whether you see it or not. And even if you don't want me here, it's better to hear the threat from a friend before your enemy delivers it himself."

Quincy got out of his chair and began to pace the room, "If I didn't want to hear what you had to say, you wouldn't be here, but you're presuming a lot to call yourself my friend." 

"Ally then."

"I very rarely have them, and they're usually people who can help me, not people who need my help. And..." He paused, "It sounds like your friends Derek and Scott aren't exactly on Peter's good list these days."

"You heard?" asked Thomas, knowing full well he had. Everyone had heard about it on purpose, after all.

"Yes," said Kenneth, "I heard...And something tells me you're being friends with them means Peter can't be too pleased with you either."

"But you know Peter didn't send his own after them, right? You know they were attacked by soldiers with werewolves who were part of Project Day Star?"

"So, what of it?" Quincy asked bluntly.

Thomas clenched his fists again and slowly raised his arms up, his face contorted with frustration. He wanted to punch something, anything, but instead he thrust his fists down violently, and yelled, "It means Peter's working with PsyNex!"

"So?" Kenneth responded casually, "He's using an enemy to eliminate an opponent. It's not something I wouldn't consider doing."

"And what about the PsyNex experiments then?" Thomas asked, "Doesn't that bother you?"

Quincy stopped for a moment and put his hands on the back of his chair, "Part of me, perhaps the less kind part, wants to think that if these werewolves are weak enough to be captured by PsyNex, they don't deserve to be pitied. Let them go. Let them weed out the weak among us so we can be stronger."

Thomas shook his head, frustrated, but kept his thoughts to himself. _The less kind part of you?_ He asked himself. _What's the kind part of you?_ H is attention returned quite abruptly though, as Quincy continued.

"I do, however, find the whole thing... distasteful," he added, before turning his back to Thomas.

"It's an affront to our way of life and our superiority. We have our own ways of culling the weak from the strong. The fact that some humans would do that for us, and then enslave them, is out-of-line. I'm not afraid of them. Those humans must think their wolf pets are powerful, but they're no threat to us, just to the other humans they fight."

"I am afraid, though, that there will come a day when they know how to enslave the alphas. Even if they never manage to, they have the resources to hurt us all, and badly. It's true, Derek took down the two wolves and their handlers in the forest, but not without a fight. What if they had sent four wolves?" asked Thomas. "I fear the day will come when wolves will no longer live in anything but cages. I fear the day when just the memory of smelling pine trees will become the heaven that we wait for when we die."

Quincy paused for a moment. Thomas thought perhaps he'd hit a nerve. He waited for a reaction, but finally pushed a little more with the obvious question.

"Will you join us then?" he asked. He watched Quincy's back still turned to him.

"I'll help you with PsyNex, but not your problem with Peter," Quincy said.

"Good, we'll be going after PsyNex first, in just a few days time," Thomas said eagerly.

"Then I'll be there," Quincy said resolutely.

"Just you?" Thomas asked incredulously.

"Do you think I'm not enough?" Quincy replied arrogantly.

Thomas hesitated, "Well, it's just, if you can spare anyone else, it would be a help... a sort of insurance. It's just that, well, we don't know everything about our target yet, and even though we should be fine with you and the others who are going, we'd rather have too much muscle than too little."

"Fine," said Quincy, "James will come too."

"I was thinking Dorian," Thomas countered.

Quincy turned around as he squinted at Thomas' suggestion, "Why?" he asked.

"Because they're planning on attacking a joint PsyNex/Military installation where they believe a number of wolves belonging to operation Day Star are being held," said a voice coming from the back of the warehouse, following the clang of a door closing.

"Been eavesdropping, Dorian?" Quincy asked as he clicked his tongue in disapproval.

"I'm the one who got you in contact with Thomas in the first place," said Dorian, sauntering towards the two.

"I didn't know you were friends," Quincy replied, seeming surprised.

"Not exactly," Thomas muttered.

Dorian stepped into the light, close to where Quincy was standing, and looked at Thomas as he explained, "We had a mutual friend. He went to school with us both, and then he transferred and became part of a pack at his new school up north."

"You two went to school together?" Quincy asked, somewhat amused.

"Yeah," Thomas said, his voice sounding rasp, as if it might crack at any moment. He cleared his throat, "Yeah, we went to school together: It was the typical jock-nerd dynamic, the classic 80s high school movie sort of thing."

Dorian laughed, "Do you still wear the same tighty-whities I used to yank up to your shoulders?"

"Why don't you come find out," Thomas said in a low voice as he let out his claws, glaring at Dorian as if he were just waiting for an excuse to cut him apart.

This time Quincy laughed, breaking the tension, "Clearly not friends then. Okay."

Dorian broke eye contact with Thomas at the sound of Quincy's laughter. "No, my friend on the hockey team..."

"Our friend," Thomas interrupted indignantly.

" _Our_ friend on the hockey team made sure we both kept our distance from each other," Dorian said.

"Made sure you kept your distance from me," Thomas muttered.

Dorian shook his head, "Anyway, our friend Phil disappeared and I think he was taken by PsyNex."

"So do I," added Thomas.

Dorian nodded, "So when Tom contacted me and asked if I wanted to help hit a facility where he thought they were keeping him, I said okay and that I'd bring it up to you. I'd do anything to make sure he's safe."

"This means a lot to you doesn't it?" Quincy asked.

"Yeah," Dorian said, suddenly seeming much more vulnerable.

"And you think he's there?"

"We can't be sure," Thomas interjected, "But it's the closest to where he was abducted. I know that's no guarantee, I mean, they could have put him anywhere, but..."

"Even if he's not there, we'll get some of them out," Dorian said, "Even if it's not Phil, it'll be for him. We'll get him back, eventually."

"We will," Thomas echoed.

Quincy shot a glance from Thomas to Dorian, then back to Thomas. "Alright," he said, "Dorian and I will go."

"Thank you," Thomas nodded in appreciation. He turned and began to walk away.

"Just remember this doesn't mean we're friends" he heard Quincy say behind him, "Or allies, or whatever you want to call this."

Thomas stopped to look back at the two other werewolves, "Then call whatever this is whatever you want. Just be there when I let you know." Thomas turned and continued towards the exit which was illuminated by the slimmest beam of sunlight peaking beneath the door. There was no sound in the warehouse anymore, save his footsteps and the metallic clank of the push bar as he leaned against it. He stepped out into the daylight, where it was silent too, but for the far-off sound of traffic, and the click of the door shutting behind him. Thomas' knees gave way slightly as he tried to recover from a meeting he'd not been sure he'd walk away from.

__

 

"Hood Mountain," Stiles said confidently.

"Hood Mountain," Thomas parroted standing a few feet away. He clapped his hands together but then he frowned as he nodded his head. He shifted from leg to leg, swinging the other as if he were about to saunter off, "What about Hood Mountain?"

"That's where we should hit them," Danny said distractedly, as he lay belly-down on the bed, poring over documents.

"You decrypted the files?"

"Lydia decrypted the files," Stiles corrected, looking up from his own stack of documents which were bathed in the light of the computer monitors. That same light cast deep shadows across the bags under Stiles' eyes, and Thomas took note of the multiple coffee cups and energy drinks cluttering the desk.

Thomas backed up against the wall and slid down it, taking a seat on the floor with a sigh. He instantly felt embarrassed at how tired he was feeling. He was mentally exhausted, but he hadn't stayed up for god-knew-how-many hours like these two had.

"So what have you found?" he asked, trying to contain the sound of his own fatigue.

"Peter's been a naughty boy," mused Danny, still not bothering to rip his eyes from the page he was examining. He bit down on a highlighter cap and then brushed some text in phosphorescent yellow.

Stiles swiveled in his chair to place the pile of papers he'd been holding onto the desk, before he turned back towards Thomas to fill him in.

"Peter's been playing both sides of the game. He's been offering hope to all these packs, but he's also been working with PsyNex and the military."

"Well I think we've got that figured out already," Thomas replied as he arched his brow.

"Yeah, but now we have the proof, and not just of that, but more," Stiles said, undeterred, "When I say proof, I mean damning proof."

"By the way, do you have any pudding?" Stiles asked suddenly.

Thomas suddenly looked confused, "What?"

Stiles stared at Thomas for a moment as if pondering where they'd gone wrong in their exchange. Then his eyes jerked up slightly as if he'd realized something, "What I was thinking about was the saying, 'the proof is in the pudding,' and then I thought about pudding, and then I asked if you had any pudding... because I'm hungry."

"Oh," Thomas replied, unsure of what to say.

Stiles continued to stare at him, and then cocked his head to the side, as if wondering when Thomas was going to answer his question.

"No Stiles! I don't have any fucking pudding! Focus!" Thomas yelled. He immediately felt bad. "I'm sorry," he said.

"It's alright. We can pick some up at the store later," said Stiles as he leaned over and started frantically rifling through the piles of papers on the desk. Thomas watched as he jerked one way, then the next, flipping through pages, then randomly jumping twenty, thirty pages down, continuing to look. "I know those emails are here somewhere," Stiles muttered.

Thomas gave a half-smile, a corner of his mouth pulled up by sympathy and amusement, the other pulled down by acknowledgment that this was not the time to consider poor organizing a minor problem.

"I believe you," he said.

"What?" Stiles asked, looking up quickly at him.

"I believe those emails are in there," Thomas repeated.

"Yeah, well, I know you do, but I just need to find them.."

"Stiles, find them later. Just tell me what they say," Thomas said reassuringly, "We can find the emails later."

Stiles quit messing about in the piles of paperwork. Thomas' voice reassured him. He did know what he was talking about. They could find those pages after.

A half-hour later, and Thomas slapped his knees and pushed himself up from the floor, "Get those documents together, all of what you described, and anything you find out subsequently. We need them ready to go, in the form of press releases."

"I can help with that," Danny said, still laying on the bed.

"I don't think that's a good idea," Thomas replied.

"What? Why not? I used to be on the school newspaper board. I'm good at stuff like that."

"Yeah, he's really good," Stiles offered.

"Fine," Thomas said looking annoyed at Stiles for the unsolicited opinion, "just don't let Derek get wind of it."

___

 

It was Saturday, two days after his meeting with Stiles and Danny, and Thomas stood with Derek before the others in the living room once again. "We're moving out tonight," he said abruptly. "The mission is two-fold: We're to break into a secure facility and rescue multiple wolves we believe to be held there as part of project Day Star. In addition to the extraction, we're to inflict as much damage as possible on the facility in an effort to render it inoperable for as long as possible, if not permanently."

"I'm in," said Helen, standing in the corner by the window. Thomas nodded.

It'll be Derek, Helen, and me, and we'll be conducting this operation with Ariel, two of her people, and Quincy and Dorian. The name Quincy didn't elicit the murmuring it had at the previous meeting. There was no point in arguing about it now. Everyone in the room knew that, and Thomas knew that they knew it, which is why he gave a slight tic of annoyance when someone said "Wait," from behind the couch.

It was Stiles.

"What?" Thomas asked.

"I want to go too."

Thomas bowed his head, relieved it wasn't about the Quincy Pack, but also impatient at the inconvenience of Stiles' request. He wasn't needed, and if anything, he'd be a liability.

Thomas sighed, "I don't think it would be a good idea, Stiles. We have enough people. Adding more could complicate things."

"It wouldn't complicate things. I can help," Stiles insisted.

"Give me one good reason, just one, and I'll let you come," Thomas countered.

"Because I say he's coming," Derek said.

Thomas looked at Derek, as if to confirm he'd really heard him right.

Derek returned his look with an unblinking stare.

Thomas looked tense, but Stiles could see his shoulders start to relax, "Alright," he said, "Stiles comes too."

"Yes!" Stiles whispered, punching the air in excitement. Thomas didn't seem to share the enthusiasm, but Derek wore a lopsided smile at seeing Stiles so happy.

 


	14. Making Friends and Killing Foes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the patience. Hope you like. Lots of drama. Sorry for any hiccups of small, or grandiose proportions (fingers crossed).
> 
> Also* Congratulations to Ireland on its referendum. It was honestly very emotional to see the huge voter turn out and that such a large majority voted for equal rights. Well done, indeed. Sorry to get political, but I'm guessing if you're reading this story, it's not really an issue for you ;)

"Thanks for driving," Thomas said from the passenger seat.

"I'm the only one who drives when I'm in the car," Derek replied in a no-buts-about-it way.

Stiles was in the backseat, thumbing through a catalog, but wasn't so focused on the contents of the thing that he didn't hear the exchange. He smiled slightly, remembering his brief stint as chauffeur on their way to Arizona. Derek was lying, or maybe he was forgetful. Though, Stiles didn't remember Derek having any memory problems.

"How did you know about this place anyway?" Derek asked.

"I didn't," Thomas said, "Quincy suggested it. He seems to know the area."

"And I take it you don't?" Derek asked skeptically.

"No," Thomas admitted, "Not in the slightest."

Derek snorted and shook his head, "Well, this should be interesting," he said. But the car carrying the four of them continued on, its headlights illuminating the winding, dark forest road that led to the abandoned mine.

Stiles had exchanged the catalog for a book with a little clip-on light attached to the cover. He glanced over at one point, noticing Helen's hand resting on the seat just in reach of the little light's illumination. "That's a pretty tattoo," he said, gazing at her hand, which was decorated in an intricate pattern of stems, swirls, and dots.

"Thanks," she replied, looking down at it, "Most people think it's henna..."

"But henna doesn't stay, just like normal tattoos don't on a wolf" Stiles added.

"So you're familiar then with how it's done?" Helen asked.

"Yes," Stiles replied, thinking back to how he'd had to hold Scott down as Derek charred his arm with a blowtorch.

"Do you know the funny thing about going through something so painful?" Helen asked.

"No, what?"

"You're willing to go through that much pain to say something about who you are... only, by the end of it, when the hands holding you down let go, and the blowtorch kissing your skin switches off, when all that hell is over," Helen paused.

"When it's over?" Stiles asked after a moment.

Helen shook her head, as if dispelling an intoxicating memory, "You're left with the mark that you wanted, but what you chose to endure to get it...makes you not the same person, and the meaning of the thing changes, simply by being a thought turned real."

Stiles looked up at her. Helen smiled at him, even though her eyes looked sad.

"Well, I think it's beautiful," he said.

The thought of the tattoo made him think about Scott's and what it meant, and then he suddenly wondered why his best friend wasn't with them.

"Hey Derek?" Stiles asked

"Hmm?" Came the reply from the driver's seat.

"Why didn't Scott come with us for this?"

"Scott's on special assignment," Derek replied, without bothering to say more.

Stiles normally would have pried, but he'd learned something in the woods about the virtue of patience which kept him silent. Something in the look that Derek shot back through the rear-view mirror showed Derek noticed the lack of follow-up from the forever curious boyfriend, but Stiles wasn't looking ahead to notice the glance. He was staring out the side window again, and Derek could only guess it was into nothing, because that was exactly how much one could see in the pitch black shroud enveloping the road.

Moments later, everyone's attention heightened, their eyes now fixed forward at the sensation of the vehicle passing from the paved road to something much bumpier. They drove more slowly now. The dust from the dirt path was eerie, and Stiles looked back to see it rising in the air, kicked up by the tires and illuminated by the tail lights.

Derek slowed down further as they rounded a bend and were able to make out two other cars parked in front of a barricade. Next to it stood an abandoned guard post that had long ago seen its last sentinel stand watch over the entrance to what had once been an operational mine. The other two vehicles parked there had their headlights still on whose beams showed the members of the other packs waiting for them outside.

The four of them got out of the car and approached the others. Derek felt a slight chill run down his spine as he approached Quincy, by far the largest of them standing there. He didn't bother with formalities, just a simple nod of acknowledgment as he said Quincy's name. Quincy returned the nod, doing the same. The two had never met, but both knew one another by reputation. Meanwhile, Thomas and Helen were fondly greeting Ariel and two members of her pack, Ben and Michelle.

Quincy smirked as he looked over at Stiles who was trailing behind Derek.

"Thomas," he shouted, "is this your boyfriend? Rude of you not to introduce us."

"Actually he's mine," Derek said, his voice cold, despite the visible puffs of warm breath it sent into the chilly night air.

"Oh," said Quincy, raising an eyebrow, "My apologies. I just thought..."

"What?" Derek said interrupting him, as Thomas walked over.

"Well, they say birds of a feather, don't they?" Quincy responded, "I figured the same applied to people of...hobbit origins," Quincy concluded, as he looked both Thomas and Stiles up and down, mockingly assessing their size.

"How old are you, little wolf?" Quincy asked, still smirking at Stiles.

"He's not a wolf," Thomas said.

Quincy's eyes narrowed as if to inspect him, "Then what are you?"

"The abominable snow man," Stiles said sarcastically.

Derek rolled his eyes, but Quincy tilted his head ever so slightly as he regarded Stiles. His eyes never broke contact, and they asked something silently which made Stiles want to smile, though he refrained from doing so.

"My name is Stiles, by the way."

"Hmm?" Quincy asked, as if breaking out of a daydream.

Stiles shoved his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, "Well, so far you've asked me how old I am, and what I am, but you never asked me who I am. And who I am is Stiles," he said.

"Ah," said Quincy, looking back at Dorian, who had kept quiet.

Quincy's head turned back at the sound of Thomas' voice, breaching the quiet ending of the exchange, "So, when shall we head out?"

"Whoa," Quincy said, putting up his hands, "Have you seen this facility?"

Thomas shook his head, "Not in person." Neither Derek nor Ariel made a move.

"I think we can take them out," Quincy started, "But first we've got to deal with the fact they have a highly charged electric fence around the perimeter... and when I say a highly charged electric fence, I mean a perimeter made up of three of them."

"How far apart are they spaced?" Ariel asked.

"I'd say ten feet from one another," Quincy shrugged.

"If there were a tree close enough, we might be able to transform and jump...maybe," Ariel suggested.

Quincy shook his head, "They've cleared the tree line back away from the fence. Wouldn't work."

No one said anything, as everyone busied themselves thinking of a solution, but after a couple of minutes, Quincy wasn't having it. "Look," he said, "Full frontal assault. We'll storm the main entrance where the cars enter. The entry point is clearly the main area of weakness in their defenses."

Everyone nodded in agreement, except Stiles, who was sitting on the ground. "Not really," he said, sounding bored.

The whole group turned around. Stiles maintained his air of disinterest, but he did look up, "If you bothered to look at Google maps, you'd have noticed that the entrance, if you can even get past it, proceeds to become a one hundred meter-or-so long driveway leading to the facility. Alongside this driveway are what look like turrets. I think you're considering the most obvious weakness in the facility's layout, which is something they've considered and protected against."

"They're probably anti-aircraft guns, if you could even tell," Quincy replied dismissively.

"Why would the military line a single entrance with anti-aircraft guns ?" Stiles asked, "Those would be spread out," he continued. "Those are Sentry guns...automatic swiveling machine guns of death. You'd be cut to shreds... werewolf roadkill, canine carrion," Stiles said.

"So what does the great general propose?" Dorian asked. Stiles watched as Quincy looked back at Dorian, his shoulders raising for a moment as if sharing a joke with a friend.

"Have any of you read the Tao Te Ching?" Stiles asked.

There was the briefest of silences before Thomas raised his hands, "I have," he said.

"Of course you have," Stiles said rolling his eyes, "Good job, Thomas, congratulations."

Thomas lowered his hand looking sheepish and retreated back a few steps.

"When the river's water flows," said Stiles, "It sometimes encounters rocks that stand in its way. But what does it do? It flows around its obstacle, because it knows its enemy is stronger there, and it doesn't have to meet it head-on."

"So what are you suggesting?" Dorian asked.

"I'm suggesting that even if the main gate looks like the weakest point, it's really the rock. So..." he paused, "We go around it."

"How?" Quincy asked, now visibly impatient.

"It may take a little while, but I think I can get you through the fences, or what I mean to say is I can de-electrify them. I assume you can get through the fencing fairly easily at that point. There's a point at which the main access road turns to the left once it gets close, and Danny and I believe that based on its position and the overhang that protrudes from the building, it leads to a service loading dock. Breaching the fence and getting to that entrance should provide you access and avoid the fortified main entryway.

"Sounds good, but are you sure you can disable the fence?" asked Helen asked.

"That's not up to me," Stiles answered vaguely, "But we should move up in the mean time."

They were there inside of twenty minutes. The mine had provided a meeting place about a mile from the outskirts of the facility. They stayed within the shadows of the forest, twenty or so feet from the first of the fences. Even from there, they could hear the humming of the electric current, coursing through the chain-link fence.

"Well?" Quincy asked throwing his hands up and looking around expectantly.

"Shut up," Derek said, as they both watched Stiles move off from the rest of them.

His back was turned to them now, and they couldn't see as he produced several bags from a satchel he carried. He first took out a feather, long and wide, striped in black and a grayish-white. He laid it on the ground, underneath a thick branch of the tree next to where he knelt. Then he laid a single acorn on top of the feather, followed by a sprig of sage. He got up, leaving the trio of miscellaneous objects on the ground. He made a couple of the werewolves in the group laugh, as he began to climb the tree, in a less-than-sprightly fashion, until he reached a big branch, where he proceeded to sit.

"Are we seriously doing this right now?" Quincy asked, as the group watched on.

"Shut up," said Thomas, this time.

Ten minutes later, and most of the group were beginning to lose their patience. It was soft, but they could just barely pick up on the humming Stiles was making. The effect did not do much for anyone's confidence in his plan, if he had one at all.

But just as Quincy was about to say he'd had enough, the group witnessed the rapid descent of a shadow-like figure swooping down and landing on the branch next to where Stiles sat.

Now, no one moved. They watched Stiles bend towards the thing.

Then they watched as Stiles dropped suddenly from the branch to the ground. No one did anything though. He seemed to drop precipitously at first, and then, it almost seemed to some that he fell much more slowly, as the shadowed figure accompanied him. They watched him land on his feet first, his legs bending and absorbing the impact, and then they watched as he lay down on the ground, his companion still by his side. Those who weren't now staring off in disbelief at Derek's crackpot boyfriend saw a tiny shadow figure scurry over to where Stiles and his friend lie.

And just like that, in a blink of an eye, Stiles' bigger companion flew up in the air, something small and limp-looking hanging beneath its feet. The group watched as it flew off, and Stiles got up off the ground and walked back towards everyone.

Derek's face didn't show it, but he was amused. He had absolutely no idea what had just happened, and that was not, the source of his carefully-concealed entertainment. He recognized the reactions of everyone else, save Thomas who seemed to share his own. They all clearly had no idea what had just happened either. The difference between their perspectives, however, was that Derek could accept that he couldn't explain or know everything. For the others, that wasn't so much the case.

"What the hell was that?" asked an incredibly annoyed and impatient Quincy.

"That was our way in, among other things," Stiles replied, as if the explanation were enough.

Dorian disabused him of that notion immediately, "First of all, what does 'among other things'' mean?" He reiterated the words with a venom that shocked even some of the others in the group. "And second of all, how is this going to-" Dorian stopped. Everyone was looking at one another, their eyes shifting from person to person. They'd all heard it, or rather, they'd all unheard it. The buzzing from the fence had stopped.

All eyes turned to Stiles.

"Go," he said, putting on the cloak he'd only been carrying up until now.

No one moved an inch, and then Derek transformed, his hands splayed, claws bared. Seeing him change, the others followed suit. Derek's eyes glowed, and Stiles, who had become used to a wolf's changing, noticed there was something in his expression that knew nothing other than do-or-die. For a moment Stiles' heart skipped, as he realized the night might end with Derek doing one, or the other, or both.

Before he could shout a _Good Luck,_ or a _Be Careful!_ , Stiles watched as Derek turned sharply, head on towards the fence, and began scraping his claws over the chain-links furiously. It was not the prettiest of entrances, and Stiles winced at the sight of sparks, fearing the electricity had been restored, but he realized they were only caused by the furious tearing of Derek's claws against metal.

And then Derek was through the first fence. The others followed him, this time joining him and ripping the second fence to shreds. They ran through, faster than ever towards the third. Stiles ran behind them, following their path. There was no way he could keep up. He hadn't expected to. He watched as they burst through the final fence, all of them now barreling forward at break-neck speed across the lawn.

Stiles watched them move off. They veered towards the loading dock door to the left, and Stiles surveyed the grounds, noticing nothing moving. The gun turrets, fixed on the road, were thankfully silent, slumbering at their posts.

He began to jog towards the loading bay, and he could hear the sound of a door next to the garage being ripped by its handle, the reinforcements causing the doorknob to snap off, although not before the door had buckled midway down, bending outward slightly, allowing Quincy to grab hold and pry it off.

It was at that point, that the facility's alarms went off. Stiles wasn't surprised. _Well, they know we're here now._ He did, however, consider how far they'd gotten before the klaxons started blaring. _I suppose we've been pretty lucky_ , he thought, as he continued jogging towards the breached door. That's when he heard a mechanical whirling. _Uh oh_ , Stiles thought, as he looked over to see one of the sentry turrets swinging around in his direction. _They rotate 360 degrees_ , he said to himself, _of course they do. I don't know what I was expecting..._

He could hear the spinning of the weapon's shaft warming up, and decided he'd better move a little faster if he were to make it home to Derek without a few new extra holes. He pulled up the hood of his cloak, dusted like the leather jacket he'd worn at the ranch: the last time, the only time, he hoped, he'd be shot.

There was a sharp ring, and the dirt kicked up just behind him. He looked back, panicking now, his adrenaline rushing. He wasn't that far . H e could make it ; h e told himself he could. He had to. He swerved to the left, his right foot feeling the earth beneath it move violently as a bullet missed it by inches before exploding the ground. 

_Jeez, these guys don't let up do they?_

He was almost there. The door was wide open and getting closer by the second. He looked back at the sentry gun one last time, then made the final sprint for the entrance. His eyes fixed on his goal, he felt the breeze of a bullet passing just behind his head. He leaped up onto the platform and ran through the doorway. He immediately hugged the wall of the entryway, panting, trying to catch his breath. He looked straight ahead, taking  in  what had  just  happened,  before looking in panic from left to right.  There was n o one... But the sound of not-too-distant fighting somewhere down the corridor caught his ear. It made that all-too-familiar chill run down his spine again, causing him to crook his head to the side.

____

Down the hall, Derek and Helen were caught between four soldiers. The two werewolves were back to back, each with two soldiers facing them. They all held their electric batons, batons like the one Chris Argent had used in the past. The two stood defensively, crouched, as if balancing on a tight-rope, unsure which direction they'd need to pivot when the moment for action came.

Derek had no plan for this one. Just like in a knife fight, it was almost guaranteed they were going to get cut, even if they came out on top. These batons however, were more dangerous than a blade or a bullet. They could keep either Helen or him down on the ground for upwards of a few minutes. It was a wolf-strength taser in stick form. He wasn't sure how they'd get out.

He growled, then feinted, right, then left, his eyes glowing, piercing the two soldier's gaze, trying to intimidate them. They weren't buying it, it seemed. Derek was surprised at the lack of reaction, but still didn't have a plan. And then he spotted the point of a hood marching steadily towards them. His face turned to one of dread, and the soldiers smirked.

The soldiers' faces , however, then changed to something else entirely. Stiles, who'd been trailing the wall of the corridor, suddenly ran full-force out into the middle of the hallway,  towards them. Derek watched the two  men  begin to glance back at Stiles, and roared, making them snap back towards him. He watched as they both gasped, and dropped their batons. Stiles was between them now , and though Derek was at pains to see it, Stiles had produced two daggers made of wood, dropped to his knees, and thrust both  up , penetrating the two soldiers, driving deep into them ,  twisting the shaft back and forth.

Derek blinked in a brief moment of disbelief, but  regaining his focus he  lunged forward, his arms separating like a butterfly stroke that ripped the two soldiers' throats open. Derek crouched to the ground with the bodies as they fell, and then turned and sprinted, full-speed toward the corridor wall, running up and around the guards facing Helen.  But when he arrived to attack them from the rear, he found two crumpled bodies. Helen had torn them apart as they'd watched, petrified, while their comrades were impaled and clawed to death before their eyes.

There they stood- t wo werewolves, four bodies and a Stiles , still on his knees, wiping blood from blade on the backs of two  dead  soldiers , looking disdainful, as if they'd been wrong to dirty his things.

"Are you okay?" Derek asked.

"Yeah," Stiles said,  his eyes still downcast as he picked up the end of one of the soldier's shirts to get a few remaining droplets off one of the daggers.

Derek nodded, "Come on let's go," he said. The three of them continued down the hallway towards the sound of more fighting. As they rounded a corner, they found  the others. Quincy was ripping and clawing at a single soldier, black body armor protecting him , but seemingly not enough. Quincy's gashes made his unprotected arms spout blood like springs, and it was obvious to everyone he was finished.  His assault rifle tumbled to the floor, the beam of the tactical light bouncing up and down the corridor. Quincy looked around menacingly, his chest heaving as red ran down his claws. And then Stiles saw Quincy's face transform into something kinder, a look of caring whose very ability to exist in the werewolf made Stiles  step back a moment. But Stiles quickly understood the reason why,  as Quincy bent down to one of the bodies that Stiles recognized as Ariel.

Thomas' eyes started to water , "She's not dead, she can't be," he said in disbelief.

"No," said Quincy leaning over her, "No, she's not."

Thomas  gulped back the frog in his throat, "She's not?"

"They shot her with something pretty bad though ," Quincy said.

"Laced with wolfsbane?" Helen asked.

"No, not wolfsbane..." Quincy looked puzzled.

"We have to get her to Deaton," Stiles  suggested.

"Yes... take her to Deaton," Quincy muttered, as he got back up.  Michelle went over and picked her up by the arms, grunting from the weight, "What about what we came for?" she asked.

"That door, I think," Stiles said, pointing to one about ten feet away. It was metal and gray and cold looking.

"What makes you say that?" Quincy asked.

"Because this is where the majority of the fighting's been," Stiles replied, "They didn't send guards to counter your invasion of the  hall  broom closet."

Quincy shrugged, and marched to the door. His muscles were bulging, bigger than ever it seemed, and he grabbed hold of the handle, which was a thick horizontal bar that ran the length of the door. He squeezed his palms around it tightly, and produced a grunt unheard in even the most testosterone-flooded gym. But nothing moved.

He stopped, unsure why he hadn't ripped the entire door from its hinges, and then he heard a soft beep. A hand  lay on his wrist, guiding him to pull. There was a click, and he looked over. It was Derek, holding  up  a security badge in his other hand so that Quincy could see.

"Where did you get that?" Quincy asked.

"Stiles found it on the man whose arms you just flayed," Thomas said smirking.

Quincy huffed, then decided to see what was inside.

The lights were dim, with a blue tint, and it was cold. Quincy and Derek  peer ed round  the door, and gazed upon a small hallway that dead-ended in gray cinder blocks. It was lined with cells, sequestered by thick metal bars running from floor to ceiling.

They entered, cautiously, and Stiles and Helen followed right behind them, as soon did all the others. There were ten cells total, five on each side.  There were no lights in them. They seemed abandoned, in fact. But Stiles and Helen watched as Derek and Quincy walked a little faster and stop suddenly. They quickly caught up to them where they'd frozen in place. Stiles looked over to see what halted Derek so quickly, and he saw two huddled masses curled up on the ground in the cell he was facing.

"Are they?"

"No," Derek said.

It was hard to see them. Only the light from the hall cast any dim glimmer on the two things. Stiles turned and saw Quincy staring at the same thing in the cell opposite . 

"Let's get them out, then?" Stiles offered. He  lifted Derek's hand holding the security badge to the black box in the wall next to the cell, and the metal door creaked open just an inch. The sound made Derek snap to, and he pulled open the door as Stiles proceeded to  open  the  cell on the opposite side of the hallway.

When Stiles entered the cell, he could see for himself now that they weren't dead. Their torsos expanded and contracted ever-so-slowly giving a hint of life. He looked around the room. There was nothing in it. No beds, no sink, no toilet, nothing but dried blood smeared on the walls.

" We need to go," Derek said suddenly. 

"Right now?" Stiles asked.

"I can hear them coming," Derek said.  The chilled tone in his voice disturbed Stiles.

Helen and Ben instantly sprang into action, entering the other cell, while Quincy and Dorian rushed to the hall door to stand guard. Thomas soon joined them, his silhouette starkly small next to the two larger alphas.

"I'll take that one,"  Stiles said pointing his finger at the more emaciated of the two wolves. He groaned a little as he tried to drag him by his arms. He realized there was no way he could  drag him, much less carry him, and already exhausted, he  dropped him with a huff.  Stiles winced as  he heard  the wolf's head hit the floor.

"Really?" Derek  asked, as he held the other wolf in a fireman's carry.

"I'm ummmm..." Stiles sputtered, "I have a weak grip?" he suggested, his voice peaking as he shrugged his shoulders , face squeamish. But the effect of the wolf's head hitting the ground must have done something  to him, because he began to stir and moan quietly. Stiles looked down, surprised, and watched the werewolf open his eyes groggily. Stiles  crouched down, "Hey buddy, we're here to get you out of this place."

"You are?"  the wolf croaked.

"Yeah, we are," Stiles reassured him. "Can you stand?"

"I," his voice trailed off and his eyes sunk away more.

"Helen and  Ben are ready to go," Derek said.

"They're almost here," Quincy said from the hall.

"I'll help you, Stiles," Thomas said, "Can you grab him under one shoulder and we'll walk him out together?"

Stiles nodded.

Thomas looked over at Quincy and Dorian, "Are you going to be okay without me?"

Quincy let out a sharp laugh at the question, but Dorian nodded assuringly.

"Alright, let's go Stiles," Thomas said, as the two of them lifted the wolf, holding him under the arms.

The sound of jogging boots could easily be heard now. "We'll hold them off," Dorian said. He and Quincy launched forward, and rounded the corner, and within moments, the sound of shots and yelling returned.

"Let's move!" Derek yelled. And they all made their way out into the corridor, back towards where they'd come from. They reached the breached door by the cargo bay, and then Stiles yelled, "Stop!" He suddenly remembered the bullets that had follow him right up to the entrance that was now their exit. "The sentry guns can reach over here. They went off when the alarm sounded. You were already inside though," he explained.

"They're don't work," Thomas said matter-of-factly.

"The hell they don't!" Stiles yelled, "How would you know?"

"Because Dorian and I came across the guards watching the monitors in a security alcove. We actually stood right behind them as they watched you on the screens," he said, "Cute cloak by the way."

"You know, they have these little joysticks to move the turret and fire. It was kind of like a video game."

"You're an asshole," muttered Stiles.

"Well, we did kill them," Thomas replied cheekily.

"Whatever," Stiles said, "Let's go."

They all made their way across the lawn, and Stiles kept nervously looking to the side to make sure the guns weren't swiveling towards them. They reached the fence, and then the next fence, and then the last, and made it out, carrying their rescued companions a little ways into the woods.

Stiles was getting tired, and Thomas could feel it. "Why don't we stop here for a minute," he suggested.

"We need to get out of here," Derek argued.

"We have two of ours in there, and we're not leaving without them," Thomas said. "In fact, take a rest here. I'm going back to help them."

"What, are you crazy?" Helen asked in disbelief.

"No," said Thomas forcefully, "I asked them to come. I need to have their backs, just like you have the backs of the wolves we've carried out of that hell-hole." He nodded at Stiles, with a look as if to say, "You've got this," and before anyone could say anything, he bolted back through the fences, through the yard, and past the breach. The rest of them sat silently in the woods, and waited.

Thomas bounded down the corridor, following its curve, and then he slowed, just as he heard what sounded not like a heated battle, but a slow, dying skirmish. His pace became even more languid, and his shoulders shrugged, as if to sulk at the loss of a heroic deed that would never be. No knight in shining armor, no cavalry at the last stand. It appeared it was just about over.

He came round the bend and found the two of them, Quincy and Dorian, standing among at least a dozen men. Quincy looked back at him smirking through his heavy breaths. "You came back?" he asked, "I didn't expect that. I'd say thank you, but you were a little late."

Thomas tried to step as lightly as he could on the morass of bodies, but he couldn't avoid feeling the odd squish or crunch which made him grimace in disgust.

"I'm sorry," he said, "I just slowed down when I could tell you'd pretty much finished them off."

"It's alright," Quincy scoffed, "It's the thought that counts."

Dorian seemed to notice something lying among the bodies. "What's that?" he asked no one in particular. Thomas tried to get closer so he wouldn't miss it, and peeked around Quincy's shoulder. Quincy looked back at him, seeming annoyed.

"What did you find?" Thomas asked, curious.

"I don't know..." said Dorian started to kneel down slowly, to look at whatever it was.

Quincy leaned over too, not wanting to miss out on whatever it was Dorian was so captivated by.

Then Quincy gave a blood-curdling howl, as claws ripped deep, red, tread marks down the length of his back. He started to turn around to attack Thomas, who had thrust his claws as deep into him as he could. Thomas' face and neck were strained, veins exposed as he gave his every effort to dig deep and rake the other wolf. Despite it all, he manage to force the words out one at a time, "Maya sends her regards."

And then Quincy heard a whoosh that made him turn his head back round, just in time to see Dorian tear every fiber of his throat meat from his spine, and fling it across the corridor 'til it splat against the gray brick wall. Thomas gave no pause to the slurping sound of meat and skin departing from his claws, bidding goodbye to Quincy's earth-bound body.

"Do you think he's dead?" Dorian asked.

"I don't know," Thomas replied. He raised his right foot and stamped it down on the alpha's exposed vertebrae. The sound of a _snap_ echoed in the hall.

"Seems pretty dead," he said as he stepped off the alpha's broken neck. He flicked his paws outwards, flinging off bits of flesh and fluid that drowned in the sea of death that surrounded them.

"Do you think he really believed we had a friend named Phil?" Dorian asked.

"He probably believed it because the rest of the story was true," Thomas said, "Throw in a little lie and it drowns in the rest."

"What do we tell everyone else?" Dorian asked.

"What we said we would, and keep it short and sweet," Thomas replied, "And if your pack asks questions, remember, you're the alpha now."

"So our arrangement stands?" Dorian asked.

"Absolutely."

 


	15. A Tide Goes Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apologies to those who may have read this chapter right after I uploaded it. "We" experienced some technical difficulties of an extremely annoying nature in the formatting derpartment when uploading this segment. ::Eyes bloodshot:: Most everything should be corrected (supplications to the almighty). Sorry if it seems a little rushed. I'm moving tomorrow and wanted to get this out before. I don't anticipate much delay in the next chapter, though.
> 
> Comments, suggestions, questions are appreciated, as always. You all are the best.
> 
> A happy June to all of you, by the way.

Scott drove like a grandmother. There wasn't another way to put it. The little hatchback made its way up the interstate towards Seattle, at the best of times going the speed limit, but more often than not, at least five under. His hands gripped the steering wheel like two vices the whole time, save for brief moments when he unclenched one or the other and stretched out his fingers, wondering why they felt so stiff.

It was nice of Thomas to lend him the car, and Scott promised to return it in tip-top shape, just as soon as his errand for Derek was done. _I'm coming to see you_ , was the single line of text he'd sent Isaac before leaving.

Scott pulled up to the address Isaac had sent him in response. He waited, admiring the Victorian house's bright colors, and an architecture that made him think of a more innocent time long since passed. Despite the brief moment of pining, Scott wondered how innocent the activities of its inhabitants could really be, despite being hidden behind such a genteel facade. The car idled as he waited, but just as he was about to turn off the engine, he saw the front door of the cheery, prim and proper house open.

Scott gave a smile at the sight of Isaac, though it was half-hearted, and hinted at a sadness matched by his eyes. He watched Isaac turn to lock the door behind him, a familiar slender figure in a pea coat, with curly hair, and a scarf, of course. Isaac headed down the steps, his hands in the pockets of his coat, his face serious. He looked quickly both ways before crossing the street and getting in. Scott leaned over and kissed him.  


"How are you?" he asked.  
"Been busy," Isaac said, "You want to go eat?"  
"Yeah," Scott said, putting the car into drive.

Twenty minutes found Scott doing his best to parallel park amid a cacophony of beeping horns from city drivers unaccustomed to his less-than-perfect urban driving and dubious knowledge of the area.

"Where are we?" Scott asked Isaac, who had been giving him directions.

"By the pier. There's a little Russian bakery down by the water that Priscilla told me about. I thought you might like it," Isaac explained.

The two of them made their way down towards the pier. It was chilly, and there was a thin mist coming off the harbor. But Scott felt the distinct change of atmosphere as they stepped into the shop, which immediately opened with a burst of warm air from the ovens behind the counter. They both ordered, and then seeing the few tables in the tiny shop already taken, Isaac suggested, "Maybe we can eat down by the water?"

The two settled on a bench outside. Scott unwrapped his pirozhk, which was hot to the touch. He bit just a tiny piece off the end, and watched as steam escaped from the hot interior out into the cold. The water was calm in the bay, and the sky was gray with thick clouds. There was only the sound of the occasional gust of wind and the haphazard squawk of a seagull.

"Derek wants me to come back, doesn't he?" Isaac asked, staring out into the bay.

"I want you to come back," Scott replied.

"So Derek doesn't want me to come back," Isaac confirmed to himself out loud.  
"That's not true. He does. In fact, that's why he asked me to come," Scott said before quickly adding, "But I came here for myself.”

"I'm not sure I can," Isaac said flatly, still staring off.

"Why not?" Scott asked, a hint of pain now evident in his voice.

Isaac shook his head, "You know, since I've been here, people have supported me. I've learned things. I feel appreciated. I feel like I'm making a difference."

"You were making a difference before," Scott reassured him.

"Not like now," Isaac replied.

Scott felt a tingle run down his spine as he thought about what it was Isaac had been up to. Isaac seemed to read his mind in that moment.

"I know you don't approve," Scott heard him say.

"The people you're hanging around with are doing bad things," Scott said.

Isaac scrunched his face up, "What do you think _they're_ doing to us Scott? Do you really expect us to play nice? Do you think that's how we're going to win? You know..." Isaac paused, before letting out a deep breath, "It may not be pretty, what we're doing, but the people I 'hang out with' are actually pretty decent."

Scott shook his head, "I didn't say they were bad people. I said they were doing bad things."

"So is PsyNex. So is the government," Isaac responded darkly.

"If I said I was going to tell you something that might be hard to believe, would you promise that you'd believe me anyway?" Scott asked.

Isaac paused.

"You know I wouldn't lie to you, don't you?" Scott asked.

"No, I know," Isaac admitted, "It's just that," he trailed off.

"What?" asked Scott.

"It's just that, even if I believe you think you're telling the truth, it doesn't mean you actually are," Isaac explained.

Scott sat back for a moment. "Where is that coming from, Isaac?" he asked, his voice filled with concern.

"Michael was talking about how Derek and Thomas have been undermining their negotiations with PsyNex to bring a stop to the experiments," Isaac said.

Scott snorted in disbelief, "Are you kidding me right now?"

"That's what Michael says," Isaac responded matter-of-factly, "We're trying to keep the pressure up on them, and Derek and Thomas are trying to break apart the Folkmoot and keep us from creating a united front against them."

"You realize Peter tried to have me killed, right?" Scott asked abruptly, irritated at the accusations.

"What are you talking about?" Isaac asked.

"On our way back from the Folkmoot we were ambushed by PsyNex."

"What- why didn't you tell me?" Isaac asked. His look was one of mixed shock and hurt.

Scott hesitated, "Because ..."

Isaac's head was turned towards him, and despite not wanting to, Scott couldn't help but look him in the eyes, eyes that seemed to be swimming now. He didn't know how to say it.

"Because why?" Isaac pleaded, desperate to understand why Scott had neglected to mention he'd almost died.

"The thing is, Derek and I took a really unusual route back to San Francisco," Scott said, "We- or I guess I should say _I_ , really wanted to see that stupid Bigfoot statue that was kind of out in the middle of nowhere. There was no reason anyone would go back to San Francisco on the road we did. But we were ambushed anyway."

"And the thing is," Scott continued, "I only mentioned we were going that way to a few people..."

A long silence lingered after that. Scott prayed Isaac would say something so he wouldn't have to. But Isaac just looked at him with an innocent anticipation.

Scott swallowed nervously and cleared his throat, "One of those people was Danny, and he admitted that he told Peter about it.”

Isaac sat still. He slowly opened his mouth, though nothing came out, until he finally managed to croak, "Are you saying he..." before stopping, unable to complete his question.

"Danny's fine. Derek forgave him," Scott reassured him, “Danny didn't do it to try to hurt us. It was a mistake, even if it was… unfortunate.”

Isaac was looking out at the bay again. His shoulders were slumped.  
“What is it?” Scott asked.  
"I think it might have been me," Isaac said quietly.  
"What do you mean?" Scott asked, shaking his head in total confusion.

"I was texting with Michael the day you guys left the Folkmoot. I mean, we text pretty much every day, but..." Isaac started scrolling through the messages on his phone. He suddenly stopped. Then read out loud:

"Mike: What are you up to?  
Me: Not much. Just laying in bed, texting with Scott.  
Mike: Yeah, the Folkmoot finished this morning. He and Derek took off.  
Me: Yeah, Scott said he was trying to get Derek to take a detour to see some Bigfoot statue.  
Mike: Bigfoot statue? Huh.  
Me: Yeah, he's geeking out about it. Probably bugging the crap out of Derek."

Isaac dropped the phone, "It could have been me, and Mike told Peter and that's how they found you." Scott wore a pained expression as he watched tears start to dribble down Isaac's cheeks.

"Hey, we got through it. Danny already admitted to it, and besides he was talking to Peter, not to Mike who only _may_ have talked to Peter. It's okay," Scott said, reaching in to hug him.

Isaac sniffled as he shook his head, "It's not okay. How could I have been such an idiot?"

"You're not an idiot," Scott reassured him, petting the back of his head in an effort to soothe him.

"I'm going back with you," Isaac sobbed.

Scott continued to hold him, but didn't say anything. He let Isaac calm down, and then he pulled away for a moment.

"Not just yet," he said.

Isaac cocked his head as he wiped his cheek with his scarf, "What do you mean, not just yet? Why would you want me to stay here?"

"I don't," Scott said, his thumb brushing away an errant tear trickling down the side of Isaac's nose.

“I don't know how to say this, so I guess I just will: We want you to bomb something for us," Scott blurted out, with a bluntness that immediately grabbed Isaac's attention.

"I thought you didn't like that kind of stuff?" he asked.

"You know I don't," Scott confirmed, "And I hope this will be the last time you ever do, because Isaac,” He paused, “This one has to be big."

Isaac regained some of his composure now, "So you're okay with big bombings, just not small ones?" he asked, trying to joke through a dried, cracking voice.

"We really need to get you a job with the Army Corps of Engineers," Scott said.

"What do you want me to take out?" Isaac asked, "Peter had me stop hitting targets this last week, so I've been kind of bored. What do you have in mind?"

"Well," Scott said, "This should make up for your dry spell." He pulled out a map, as Isaac licked his lips in anticipation. "Oh," Isaac said, his head jerking back in surprise as Scott pointed to a spot on the map.

"Can you do it?" Scott asked.

"Why?"  
"Because I need you to," Scott replied.  
"No, I mean, why _this_?" Isaac clarified, “It's so random.”  
"Because it belongs to a subsidiary of PsyNex," Scott explained.

Isaac glanced down at the map again.

"Can you do it?" Scott asked.

"Most of this would be a piece of cake," Isaac replied, "It's just getting close enough."

"Do you think security will be heavy?" Scott asked.

"There will probably be a good amount, and then I need to be able to get out of Dodge before it goes off," Isaac said.

"What do you need from us?" Scott asked.

Isaac looked up from the map, "Do you have an aircraft?"

"We have a pilot," Scott said, remembering Stiles recounting Maria's story about Mexico and Deaton's abruptly ended flying days.

"But you need a plane," Isaac said, pointing out the obvious.

"If we can get you a plane, can you do it?" Scott asked.

"Yes," Isaac responded without a hint of doubt, "I'll just need to pick up something first. Shouldn't be a problem though."

"How soon can you be ready?"  
"Within 48 hours, give or take," Isaac said confidently, "I'll meet you at the townhouse," he added, "Go brief your pilot."

Scott got up from the bench. "Let's get going," he said, extending his hand. Isaac took it and got up too. Twenty minutes later and they were back where they'd first started, parked on the street in front of the cute Victorian house. "You know once this is done you can't come back here," Scott said out of the blue.

"I know," Isaac confirmed, "But now I don't want to."

"What about your friends?" Scott asked.

"What friends?" Isaac said.

"Kira, and Argent, and Priscilla," Scott's voice shuddered a little as he uttered the last name.

"I'll miss them," Isaac admitted, "I'll even miss Mike. But I know I can't stay."

"They may come find us once they learn the truth," Scott said. "What you're about to do won't change anything on its own, no matter how big it is."

"Then why do it at all?" Isaac asked.

Scott placed his hand firmly on his shoulder, "Because you're not the only one in this fight, Isaac. You were never alone, and you never will be.”

___

Derek and the rest of the group looked up as Thomas and Dorian tore through the trees, finally reaching their companions.

"Is everything okay?" Stiles asked, looking at Thomas with a quizzical expression.

"Everything's fine," Thomas said, panting.

"Where's Quincy?" Derek asked.

"Dead," Dorian responded, without faltering even a moment.

"What?" Helen asked. She leveled here eyes at him, expecting an explanation.

"There's no time right now, we need to go before reinforcements get here," Dorian said, as he helped Stiles pick up the werewolf Thomas had helped him move earlier.

"They should be able to walk a little more easily now," said Stiles, "I gave them some medicine."

Thomas looked around at the four wolves, who seemed far from being in ideal shape, but who nevertheless appeared to have gained some modicum of stamina. Stiles had given them the same thing Maria had pressed against his wound the night he'd been shot at the ranch: a wad of green leaves he'd parked in the side of his mouth like chewing tobacco. Unlike Maria however, he'd transferred the wad directly into each of the wolves' mouths. Doing so four separate times in rapid succession made his head a little fuzzy, although he noticed too that he moved a little more quickly; he felt a little stronger.

Maria would be proud of him. _I'm going to have to tell her that I used it differently_ , Stiles thought. She'd never really instructed him in how to use the leaves, but had gifted him a bag of them. She'd slipped in the word _chuspas_ in doing so, probably without thinking of it, and Stiles' prodigious use of the internet and his insatiable curiosity quickly led him to understand what the bag and the leaves were. He'd meant to ask her why she carried something that came so far from where she'd learned her craft. He'd always imagined she'd used local medicines. Though, as he glanced down at the gift she'd given him, he could very well have asked the same question of himself. He suspected there was quite a bit more still to learn from her, and in any case, he was glad to have the leaves.

The effects of the medicine weren't only in his head. The others noticed too, as they struggled to get the rescued wolves to their feet, that they seemed less heavy, more ambulatory, as if some renewed force were present in them. Derek and Dorian looked up as a black helicopter hurtled through the sky above them in the direction of the facility. They both could hear far off in the distance that it was not the only one on the way.

"Back to the cars," Derek said.

They made their way back steadily, though more slowly than any one of them would have liked. Stiles kept looking over his shoulder to see whether they were being followed, but there was no sign of a pursuit.

They halted near the edge of the forest where their cars were parked. Derek crouched down, his hand raised back towards the rest of the group. He sniffed the air before advancing slowly. No one was waiting for them, But the fact gave him little comfort. He ushered the rest of the group into the clearing and towards the vehicles.

"We'll all go back to San Francisco," Thomas said, before everyone piled into their respective cars.  
“Here,” he said, handing a device to Dorian and another to Ben, who was driving for Ariel's pack, “Plug it into your cigarette outlet. Make sure the light is on.”  
“What is this?” Ben asked.  
“It's a GPS jammer,” Thomas explained, “We don't know if these wolves have GPS trackers or not, so we're going to play it safe. I want it back when we get to our safe house.”  
Ben and Dorian both nodded in agreement.  
“We'll make room for everyone there and then we'll de-brief." He gave the address to Dorian. Ben already knew where he lived, as did most of Ariel's pack. They had been close for a long time, well before Thomas had even moved to the San Francisco area, and many of them had spent a night or two over at the pack's townhouse.

After everyone had plugged in their jamming units, they were off. The next thing heard in the clearing was the sound of car doors closing, and the loose gravel of the mine's parking lot grinding under the tires of the departing vehicles.

Like some sort of makeshift, haggard convoy, Derek led them towards the paved path that would eventually lead them to a highway, and then gradually to civilization. But Derek heard something approach, and he pricked up his ears, as did Stiles shortly thereafter. They could both hear the sound of a helicopter approaching, a sound that then seemed to hover overhead, keeping pace with them as they moved down the road.

"Well," Stiles muttered to himself, "This is for you, Quincy, care of your abominable friend." He took a feather out and brushed it lightly over his palm. He spoke in an inaudible whisper, blowing syllables over his hand with his breath. Derek started to look over, but his attention was abruptly seized by the sight of the mountain peak to his left. Snow began to trickle upwards into the air, before it started swirling off the peak. Everyone in the car, and, Stiles imagined, the other two cars following them, watched with their mouths wide open, staring in disbelief at the sight. The flurry of snow began flying towards them, churning at the height of the helicopter, before enveloping it completely.

"Take the next turn you can and let's try to use the forest roads to lose him while he can't see us," Stiles said nervously.

Derek flicked the turn signal so the other cars behind them knew they'd be turning off. At the next available right, they headed off the highway. Thomas, meanwhile was texting from the backseat to the people in Ariel's and Dorian's cars to explain what was going on.

Stiles looked closely at the map from the glove compartment, trying to trace a line to another highway. _Yes!_ he thought, finding a route to the other side of the forest. "Alright, in a couple miles, you're going to take a left down Forest Road 1397. Then after that, take a right at the next turn on FR298. That'll take us to a highway that goes back to the city."

Derek nodded, "How long can you keep that helicopter blind?" he asked.

"A few more minutes," guessed Stiles.  
"I'm going to slow down a little bit then. I don't need us kicking up dust for them to see once the snow stops," Derek said.

"Probably a good idea," Thomas chimed in.

Stiles sat back, thinking about history class and what happened to America's botched hostage rescue in Iran, "I think if they spot the dust we're kicking up it'll be a sadder day for them than for us.” Stiles knew he could move more than snow, though he hoped he wouldn't have to demonstrate how dust and helicopters didn't always mix well.

A few minutes later Stiles could tell the snow flurry surrounding the helicopter had dissipated, but none of them noticed any hint of a renewed pursuit. And so they drove on, finally reaching the highway Stiles had promised them. The coast was clear, and an hour later they were all parked outside the townhouses.

The group made their way into the building, trying not to draw too much attention to themselves, what with them supporting a handful of clearly beleaguered individuals in torn-up rags for clothes. It came as no surprise that the kitchen in Derek's house smelled delicious, but it was more of a surprise that the kitchen table in Thomas' home was laden with food as well. Stiles shook his head, Maria certainly knew how to cook for a crowd.

But Maria perhaps did not expect the state of the new guests. The group brought the rescued wolves and Ariel inside, and immediately got them some place to sit, be it in on a couch or a chair grabbed from the kitchen table. They seemed somewhat better now, but none of them made much small talk. They all still seemed exhausted.

Derek found Deaton and ushered him into an adjacent room, "We need to get those crab devices off the backs of their necks as soon as possible," he said.

"I'm not sure that's the wisest idea," Deaton advised, "We still don't know exactly how they work and what the short or long-term effects might be. I'd like to run some tests first, get some x-rays. An MRI would be even better to take a look at any soft tissue grafted with the devices, but that's practically out of the..."

"It's a security risk," Derek said cutting him off, "As far as we know they could be activated at any moment and we could be caught off-guard."

"Didn't the equipment you found suggest their handlers have to be in reasonably close proximity?" Deaton asked, "Do you have any reason to believe they could find you and get close enough to activate them?"

"No, I don't,” Derek admitted, “But that doesn't mean they don't have longer-range capabilities available to control them via satellite, or cell phone towers. We just don't know, and it's not a risk I'm willing to take. Plus, we're taking an awfully big risk right now that they're equipped with GPS tracking, and who knows if that's working or not. If our GPS jammers fail even for a moment, they could lead them right to us."

"Very well then," Deaton said reluctantly, "Is there a room I can use?"  
"Mine," Derek said immediately.

"Can you put a few chairs out in the hall?" asked Deaton, "I want to take them one at a time."  
"I'll get Danny to set it up. In the meantime I have some questions I want answers to," Derek said, as he patted Deaton on the back. He re-entered the main sitting area and whispered to Danny, who immediately went upstairs.

"And that's when Stiles made a snow storm that surrounded the helicopter so we could escape...." Derek heard Thomas recounting to everyone there.

Derek interrupted him, "Can we get our guests up to the third level? Dr. Deaton is going to have a look at them." The request was met by the immediate sound of chair legs sliding along wood, as people helped the rescued wolves to their feet and guided them up the stairs.

Once they'd gotten Deaton's patients to what would soon become his makeshift surgery, the members of the packs came down to hear more of Thomas' recollection of the night's events.

"And they had sentinel guns on the main access road, so we had to go around it, through the electrified fences," Derek heard him say as he came back.

"What happened to Quincy?" Derek asked abruptly, causing everyone in the room to look back at him.

Thomas stared at Derek, no response forthcoming, and then Dorian stepped next to Thomas, placing his hand gently on his shoulder, as he drew a dramatic breath.

"Quincy died, and I'm the one who killed him."

There was not a sound to be heard in the room.

"They came marching down the hall for us. There must have been a dozen of them," Dorian said.

"Quincy and I went at them. They tried to hit us with their electrified batons, but I only got brushed a couple of times- not enough to knock me out of the fight. But one of the soldiers hit Quincy and he went down. I was on my own, but I kept at them."

Dorian stopped for a moment, as if considering something, "You know, it's hard to say how long he was out. You lose track of how much time really goes by during something like that, but I could swear he was back on his feet inside of twenty seconds, even if it felt like longer."

Dorian paused again, staring up at the ceiling like he might start to cry,  
"After we finished off the last of them...I don't know if it was just that he was high off the killing, or if the shock did something to him, but Quincy came at me, saying I'd let them get to him on purpose... that I wanted to kill him."

"It's true," Thomas said, interjecting into the other wolf's monologue. "I got there pretty much right when that started to happen. I didn't know what was going on, but all the soldiers were dead, and Quincy was going crazy. He was frothing at the mouth and saying Dorian was a backstabber and that he was going to kill him for it."

"So what did you do?" Derek asked Dorian.

"Do you need to ask?" Dorian replied.

"No. I guess not," Derek admitted, folding his arms.

Thomas glanced over at Maya, "Dorian is the alpha of the Sacramento pack now, by right. Whether his pack will continue to help us is now his decision.”

Dorian did not hesitate, "You can count on our support," he offered, "You only ever convinced Quincy to help because of the indignation he felt towards humans trying to use werewolves for their own devices. And even then, it was only because the facility was in our territory. He was never interested in anything that didn't immediately concern him."

"And we appreciate the support, both from you and from Quincy," Thomas said. "I know your pack has been in that area for a long time and that you hold it very dear. We can't afford to undervalue our friends, especially ones who will stand with us when we're in need, friends who recognize the danger we all face together. Believe me when I tell you my pack stands ready to help you maintain the integrity of your lands, from human, wolf, or other threats."

  
Dorian nodded in appreciation, and a few people in the room started to clap, as Derek looked over at Stiles, who was gazing through squinted eyes at the two pack leaders shaking hands.  
Stiles and Derek, who were both by the front door, turned at the sound of it unlocking. It was Scott, who peeked in shyly, seeing all the people assembled. “Hope I'm not interrupting anything,” he said wearing an embarrassed grin. He closed the door and went to stand by Stiles. He looked over at Derek and gave a slight confirmatory nod. Isaac would do what he'd asked.  
Derek produced his Blackberry. _Meeting after. Coffee shop._ The message sprang up on both Stiles' and Scott's phones. Derek watched as Scott typed away before putting his phone down seconds before his own Blackberry buzzed with a response: _Alright. Ask Deaton if he still likes flying._

Meanwhile, the show in the living room continued.

“We're going to be better off for all of this,” Thomas announced, “And more will join us. Tomorrow, we will reveal to the world what PsyNex and Peter have been up to, and we'll finally expose the fact that Peter and his ilk have been in the pockets of PsyNex this whole time. I know all of us here were already aware. Some of us have been frustrated that we didn't act sooner to expose their alliance, but believe me when I say, tomorrow, we'll send a message to all the packs, and a very special one to Peter and PsyNex.”

The meeting dispersed, and Derek went up to check on Deaton. The hallway was still lined with chairs, though now they were occupied with werewolves who bore only red-tinted necks, rather than the nefarious crab devices which were previously attached. Derek knocked on the closed door to his bedroom.

“Come in,” came the sound of Deaton's voice.  
Derek opened the door on Deaton who was bending over Ariel, lying in the bed. Her hands were clasped together, though Derek noted her face had regained some of its color. Deaton looked back at him, “Mistletoe,” he said.

Derek nodded, “She'll live then?”

Deaton looked up, “Oh yes, she'll live. She was priority number one in triage. I helped her before any of the others, and she'll recover. But I'm disturbed by how accute the effects have been on her. It may be whoever shot her did so with some sort of concentrated extract.”  
Derek looked concerned, “Whatever she was shot with knocked her out good and cold for hours,” he said, “That's not an encouraging development.”

“Well, the good news is, she'll recover,” Deaton said.

“Hmmm....” Derek muttered pensively. Deaton was unsure if he'd even heard him. But was surprised at the suddenness of the next question.

“Scott wanted me to ask you how you feel about flying these days,” Derek said.  
Deaton shrugged, “Maybe if I still had a plane, I'd know.”

“And if I could get you one?” Derek asked.

“What for?” Deaton inquired.

“To fly Isaac to drop off some luggage somewhere, maybe take a quick vacation. That's all,” Derek said.  
Deaton closed his eyes for a moment, suspecting something more, before he responded reluctantly, “When?”

“Tomorrow night,” Derek said.  
Derek shut the bedroom door behind him as he left. His fingers mashed his Blackberry's buttons as he shot off a text to Isaac. It wasn't really necessary to confirm with him that it was moving forward; Isaac was already on his way. He'd left hours ago, borrowing Mike's car.

“Where are you going?” Mike had asked.

“Portland,” Isaac explained, as he rifled through his backpack to confirm he'd taken everything he needed.

“Okay,” Mike said, rather easily as he started to hand the keys over without any further questions.

“Oh, and then I'm going to San Francisco,” Isaac added casually.  
Mikes' hand recoiled, clenching the keys, “That's kind of a long way to go, don't you think?”

“I won't go if I don't get Peter's permission,” Isaac said.

“Does he know you're going to see him?” Mike asked, his forehead scrunched up.

“Text him now,” Isaac said, putting his hand out expectantly for the keys. Mike dropped them into his waiting palm, and reached for his phone.  
A three hour drive delivered Isaac to Peter's Portland home. Eric, ever the tree-chopping giant in flannel, stood on the front steps in a wide stance, arms crossed. His face was nearly emotionless as Isaac approached, save for a slight curl of his lip as he took in the enormous yellow scarf wrapped around Isaac's neck.

“Where do you get those things?” he asked.  
“What things?” Isaac asked, oblivious.  
Eric shook his head, “Peter's very curious to know why you're here, and so am I.”

“Well let's go see Peter then,” Isaac said rather brusquely, his eyes widening in expectation that Eric might remove himself from his path and open the door, which he finally did with a scowl.  
The welcome inside could not have been any different, however. Peter sat on a couch, his legs crossed casually, “Isaac!,” he exclaimed warmly, “Good to see you.”

“Sorry for the short notice,” Isaac started off immediately to which Peter immediately responded, “Nonsense. You know you're always more than welcome here,” brushing the whole thing off.

“Thank you for that,” Isaac said, sounding sincere, as he plopped down onto a loveseat opposite Peter, “Well, I support I should explain myself then,” he continued. Peter raised an eyebrow in expectation.

“I've found where they are,” Isaac said.

“Where who are?”

“Thomas and his pack.”

“Oh, really?” Peter glanced up at Eric, “And where are they?”

“Well,” Isaac hesitated as he wrung his hands, “They're in San Francisco.”  
Peter's explosive laugh made Isaac's head jerk back up from staring at the floor.

“Well, yes, Isaac, they haven't made a secret of that,” Peter said, gazing to the side with a grin, as if to indicate his amusement might turn to boredom, and then to something worse.  
Isaac cleared his throat, “To tell you the truth, I'm going down there today,” he said.

“Without knowing where it is?”

“Scott sent me a message. He says he wants to meet with me, and...” Isaac paused as he looked up to the ceiling, “I think he wants to break up with me... I think he's been cheating on me with Thomas.”

“First of all,” said Peter, “I'm sorry to hear about that. I don't know if you can make things up between you two, but regardless of what he did, I always knew him to be a decent guy.”  
Isaac shook his head, sniffling. “But that being said, I don't quite follow,” Peter continued, “You think by meeting with Scott, you can find out where Thomas' pack is?”  
Isaac looked Peter straight in the eyes, “Oh, I know I can,” he said, sounding dead-serious now, “Derek and Scott live right next to him.”

“Is that a fact?” Peter asked, uncrossing his legs, “So you'll go to see Scott, and then what? Are you saying you'll let us know where Thomas lives?”

“No,” Isaac said. Peter leaned back into the couch and re-crossed his legs. Isaac hesitated before putting out his plan, “No, I want your permission to take him out while I'm there.”

“I'm going to assume, given your pastimes, how you plan to do that, and then ask the obvious question,” said Peter, “What about Derek and Scott, living right next door? I don't think you could do it- I don't think you're willing to risk that kind of collateral damage,”

“I'm not,” Isaac said frankly.

“And neither am I,” Peter assured him.

“Which is why I'm going to park in front of Thomas' place, meet with Scott, and then draw Derek out too. We'll go some place: a park, a restaurant, some place a ways off, and then,” Isaac opened his backpack, pulling out some electronic equipment, “I'll remote detonate the explosive and destroy it all.”  
Peter's hand was balled into a fist that covered his mouth as he thought about it. Isaac stared straight at him, not letting up, and Peter noticed from his peripheral vision. “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked.

“I wouldn't be here if I weren't sure,” Isaac said, “Thomas is a threat to our survival as a species, and if I can find him and take him out, I say we do it.”

“And, of course, it has nothing to do with any kind of personal vendetta against him,” Peter smirked.

“Oh no, who could dream of killing that son-of-a-bitch for something so petty?” Isaac replied.

“So what do you need from us?” Peter asked.

“Just your permission,” Isaac replied, “I need a couple of oil barrels, thirty-or-so-pounds of ball-bearings, screws, whatever, and I'm good.”

“What do you propose exactly to make all those things go boom?” asked Peter.

“The fifty pounds of plastique I have in the car,” Isaac replied. Peter's eyebrows lifted slightly at the mention of the massive amount of explosives.  
Isaac gave a shudder, brought on the by the sensation of two hands gripping his shoulders from behind. It was Eric. “I have something you may want to use instead of oil drums,” he said. Isaac turned his head to look up at him, “Okay,” he said, a certain amount of meekness in his voice, as he stared up at the giant of a man.

Eric looked over at Peter, who nodded. “Come with me,” he said, releasing his grip.

Isaac followed Eric out of the house and into the back yard. He stepped carefully on each of the stone steps that meandered in the grass towards the workshop at the back of the property. He waited as Eric stopped and pulled out a large ring of keys, selecting one which he inserted into the door of what was essentially a large shed. A click, and the door swung open. The interior was dark until Eric slid his hand up the wall, flicking the light switch to the right of the door.

“Come in,” he said, waving Isaac through.  
The walls were lined with an impressive number of cabinets, each with rows of drawers containing untold numbers of screws, nails, drill bits, wrenches, pliers, and god-knew-what-else. But it was what was on the table in the center of the room that drew Isaac's attention more than anything else.

“What is that?” he asked slowly, staring at the large, metallic object resting on it.

“Sheila,” Lumberjack said with more than a slight hint of pride in his voice. “It's yours, if you want it,” he added.

“Beautiful,” Isaac whispered, as he circled around it.

It was a bomb, or, more properly described, the shell of one, for at the moment it was empty. It was the shape of an aerial bomb, like one dropped from an old Lancaster bomber in World War II. It was long, cylindrical, with a round tail section that plumed out and formed a sort of halo at the end. Yet, what was striking about it was the exterior was not flat, but composed of individual segments which spiked out, like pyramids, and were welded together seamlessly to create the effect that one were looking at a topographical map of some mountainous region of the world. Isaac ran his hand over it, admiring the joined geometric shapes.

“I designed it that way so when the explosive goes off, the weak points will be at the joints holding the pyramids in place, and they'll separate, so that the exterior works with the explosion, not against it, trying to contain it. And, you see, the external shell itself will act as shrapnel,” Eric explained.

“Like a hundred spear tips flying out in all directions,” Isaac muttered, “This is really impressive.”

“Thanks,” Eric said, “Now to load it, you need to twist the top off, see?” he said, unscrewing the front section of it, “I threaded it myself. Put whatever you want in there.” He went to the tail section. “Here, you can see there's a hole for wiring a charge.”  
Isaac nodded, but also noticed that the cylindrical tail had something Eric hadn't mentioned. He leaned in closer, and observed tiny etchings, of what looked like a hunting scene. Eric blushed,

“Oh yeah, did that too,” he admitted.

“This isn't a bomb, this a piece of art,” Isaac said.

“Yeah, well,” Eric said, blushing a little more, as he avoided making eye contact out of embarrassment. Isaac looked up at the tops of the shelves where Eric had averted his gaze, and it was then he noticed the dozens of model airplanes displayed, intricately painted and mounted.

“You know I shouldn't take this. I'm just setting off a car bomb,” Isaac said.

“This'll do fine for that,” Eric objected.

“It seems more suitable for dropping on a target,” Isaac said.

“I designed it more as functional art,” Eric said, “It took on that shape because I like model planes. I'm not going to be offended if you deliver it by car... although by plane would be cooler,” he said, snorting and rubbing his hands together giddily.

“So I can use it?” Isaac asked.

Eric nodded, “Back your car up the driveway to the gate and we'll load it in.”  
Isaac backed up the car, and between the two of them, well, with most of the lift provided by the lumberjack wolf, they managed to put the bomb into the back of the vehicle.

“Mike is going to be pissed when he finds out what happened to his ride,” Isaac said.

Eric laughed, “We can get him a new one. It will be worth it.”

The two went back inside to find Peter. “Is everything good to go?” he asked.  Eric nodded.

“Make sure to contact us as soon as it happens,” Peter said to Isaac.

“I will,” he said, “And of course, the news will probably cover it too.”

“Good,” Peter said. Isaac unlocked the car, and Eric patted him on the back. “Good luck,” he said.  
Nine hours later Isaac pulled up to the twin townhouses, not to bomb them, but to pick up Deaton. It was dark out now, and Deaton got in somewhat unceremoniously, exhausted from the day's surgeries and particularly unhappy about knowing where they were going.

“Which airfield are we supposed to go?” Isaac asked.

“Kennilworth,” Deaton replied, “It's a small airport about twenty minutes out of town. We've got a plane waiting for us there.”  
Isaac nodded as he put the car back into drive.

“Where are we flying, anyway?” Deaton asked.

“Reno,” said Isaac, who handed a map to Deaton that showed a flight path between the Bay Area and Reno, Nevada by way of an unexpected right angle formed to the south of them in Central California.

“This doesn't make any sense, why are we going there like this?” Deaton asked.

“Why do you care?”

“Because I'd like to file a flight plan,” Deaton said, “And I don't know how to explain this exactly.”

“We don't need a flight plan,” Isaac replied.

“I'd prefer one for safety...”

“And I'd prefer not... for safety,” Isaac said, interrupting him, “But as to your question of why we're going to Reno like this, well, we're dropping off...”  
Deaton was already twisted around the passenger seat, his hand holding up the tarp,

“Some luggage,” he said darkly, finishing Isaac's words. “Goddamnit, I don't know if I can do this.”

“You have to,” said Isaac, looking over at Deaton. Deaton stared back at him incredulously, “Oh, do I?”

Isaac huffed, “It's not meant to kill anybody,” he said.

“But will it?” Deaton asked, “Can you guarantee that it won't?”

“No,” admitted Isaac, “But we're doing it at night, and I don't think there'll be people around then,” he said.

“Oh, well, as long as you don't _think_ so, then I guess it'll be okay. You've obviously done your research, because, oh wait, I suppose I should ask,” Deaton stopped, before saying it in the bluntest possible way, “Do you actually care?”

Isaac looked at him disbelievingly, “Of course I do,”

“You have a way of showing it,” Deaton replied.

Isaac stared down at the steering wheel, and scratched frustratingly at the back of his neck, his wool scarf suddenly feeling very itchy.

“Why don't we....” he started.

“Why don't we what?” Deaton asked, reaching for the door handle as if he might just abandon the whole thing altogether.

“Why don't we fly low, drop it, and then call it in... give whoever might be there time to get out, and then detonate remotely. We can do that. I was planning on remote detonating anyway,” he said.

Deaton's hand lingered on the door handle, before he removed it and placed it back in his lap. “Thirty minutes,” he said, “We call it in _before_ we drop it, and give them thirty minutes to evacuate, no less. I won't have blood on my hands for this.”

“Deal,” said Isaac as he pulled them out onto the road and sped off to the airfield.  
___

The hanger's exterior was dark, but the lights from the tarmac dimly illuminated the turboprop parked outside of it, waiting for them. Deaton produced the keys that Derek had acquired from the owner, an old friend who was happy to let him borrow it for a few days.

They pulled the car up next to the plane and Deaton got out to open the side door of the fuselage while Isaac opened the car trunk. With Deaton's help, they both managed to grab their payload and carry it over to the plane, hoisting it in with a synchronized grunt before closing the door. Isaac moved the car, parking it in the pilot's lot next to the side of the hanger, before he jumped up into the passenger seat. Deaton reviewed some maps and prepared the little plane for take-off.

“Here,” Deaton said, handing him his Blackberry, “Go ahead and warn them.”

“Who should I call?”

“Text Thomas,” Deaton said, “He and Danny can send out warnings through email and social media channels that can't be traced. If we call anyone, even the news so they can report it to the cops, there'll be a record of where the call came from, and they'd be able to trace it back to this airfield and with a little investigation, this airplane.”

Isaac shot off a text to which he received an almost immediate response. _Done _, it said simply. He handed the phone back to Deaton.__

As they taxied, Isaac noted something nice about little airports: they had scant amenities, but then again, they didn't really need to keep you entertained. They were really about going places, not sitting around for hours after queuing in interminable security lines just to drink an overpriced coffee in a Rainforest Cafe, or a Hard Rock, or some other horrible place. This airport had planes, fuel, and a runway, a runway Isaac watched gradually slip from sight as they ascended not fifteen minutes after they'd arrived.

Twenty minutes into their flight heading South-Southeast, Deaton advised Isaac that they were approximately ten minutes out from their target. Isaac unbuckled and climbed awkwardly into the back of the plane, having wedged himself between the two front seats separated by seven or eight inches at most.

“So how are we going to do this?” Deaton yelled over the noise of the engine reverberating throughout the plane.

“Open the door and push it out,” Isaac said simply.

“Take a look,” said Deaton, pointing out the front window, “That's it. That's the largest fertilizer plant on the west coast.”

“And more importantly, it's the largest fertilizer plant on the west coast that happens to be owned by a PsyNex subsidiary,” Isaac added.

Deaton could make out bright, yellow lights swirling round and round at the huge complex. He imagined the lights were probably accompanied by klaxons warning people to run for their lives.

“Where do you want it?” he asked.

“That building,” said Isaac, pointing towards the monstrous warehouse near the center of the industrial campus, “That's where they'll store the fertilizer.”

“I'll drop our airspeed as low as I can,” Deaton said, but dropping a bomb even onto a building that size...it's not a guarantee at these speeds.”

“Deaton-there's enough plastic explosive in this thing that I could graze it and get this party started,” Isaac said, laughing, clearly disturbing Deaton.

“You know, sometimes I worry about you,” he said.

“Hey, we all have our hobbies,” Isaac replied, a smile still on his face.  
Deaton shook his head, muttering under his breath, “And that's why you're getting a model train for Christmas.” He throttled back, and Isaac watched over his shoulder as they made their approach.

“Get the door open,” Deaton yelled. Isaac pulled the latch, and the door swung violently open. “Prepare to drop,” Deaton yelled. Isaac pushed the bomb as close to the door as possible. He waited, his hands on the tail of it, hunched over, listening for the command.

“Now!” Deaton said.

Within a split second, Isaac lurched forward, shoving the bomb out the door as he collapsed to the floor in its wake. He scrambled up and inched towards the open door. He pressed his hand firmly against the fuselage, as he leaned out cautiously and grasped the door, pulling it back in as he tried his hardest not the look down. As he did so, the sound of the hurricane-force winds swirling about the fuselage subsided, replaced by the calmer sounds of the plane's propeller. Isaac remained there, staring at the door, and then stood straight up and saluted, as he whispered, “Here's to Sheila and Eric.”

Isaac climbed back into the passenger seat, no less awkwardly than the first time. He apologized as his elbow brushed against Deaton's face. As he buckled in, he felt Deaton throttle forward and coax the plane up. He banked the plane, beginning to make a wide circle around the complex.

Out the cockpit's window, Isaac could see it: a hole in the building's roof. The bomb had gone through it. “Fly us over the building again,” he told Deaton, who immediately turned the aircraft to go straight over the complex. As they flew above the building for a second time, Deaton glanced over as Isaac produced a black box with a switch and a small antenna. He pressed the single button on it, and a red light appeared.

“Now what?” he asked. “Now,” said Isaac, “Now, we get the hell out of here.”

“Roger that,” said Deaton pushing the throttle all the way forward, “Reno, here we come.”

Approximately ninety seconds later, Deaton glanced over at Isaac who was looking at his watch. “Did the bomb not work?” he asked.

Isaac's eyes didn't budge from the time piece, “Well, I set it on a timer for two minutes once I activated it so we could put some distance between it and us, because one of two things is going to happen,” he said.

“Either there will be a small explosion, relatively speaking of course, that starts a fire that will probably last for days, or there will be a small explosion, and then a very, very big one after that.”

“Hmmm,” Isaac said, putting down his wrist and looking disappointed, “I guess it'll just be a fire... unless of course, I made a mistake and nothing happened at all. I doubt it though.” He chuckled, “Wow that sounded really arrogant of me,” he said shaking his head.

“Yep,” said Deaton without a hint of amusement.

Isaac didn't seem to pick up on it, “That sucks, it would have been cool to see a..."

 _BOOM!_ They both looked in the planes' side mirrors at a humongous fireball shooting into the night sky. It mushroomed, as if it had been a nuclear explosion. They looked at each other. Isaac wore a, _that was so cool,”_ grin on his face, and it didn't fade for a second at the lack of reciprocation from Deaton, who noticed just the briefest of upticks in the plane's airspeed indicator, presumably from the shock wave rippling past them.

The plane flew on towards Reno, where they'd spend some time in a hotel, pretending they had business being there. With a little luck no one would tie them to the incident. They could get some well-deserved rest and Isaac, at least, could relish in the success of their mission.

But if Isaac thought he and Deaton had been the only ones up to any mischief that evening, he'd have been quite mistaken. That night, more than one other wolf had ventured out on a mission. And the day after the explosion, while he and Deaton spent the morning at the amusement park, all the previous night's events came together, and changed everything.


	16. Things Fall Apart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to apologize for the ridiculously long time it took me to put this chapter up. Life happens/happened. If you don't remember, Isaac took a car from Mike under the pretenses of blowing up Thomas' building and was gifted a bomb shell with which to do so by Eric. Instead, on orders from Scott/Derek, he used it to blow up a fertilizer plant owned by PsyNex, in order to send a message. This chapter is all happening while he and Deaton are getting ready to take off. -Two more chapters, and we'll have a finished story, I promise. :)
> 
> Once again, sorry for the long delay. Thanks for sticking around, and I hope the recap helps. Love to you all and happy holidays!

Scott, Derek, and Stiles sat down at a cafe table way in the back. They were close against the wall, in a corner dimmed by shadows forgotten by the lights. “Isaac will be going on his mission this evening,” Derek said. The other two nodded. Scott had already informed Stiles of the plan. Stiles, in his usual manner, had brushed off the “going to bomb a fertilizer plant,” explanation as no big deal.

Derek leaned into the table, his forearms resting on top. He looked furtively at both of them. “Thomas is about to release all of the files we stole from Peter and PsyNex's accounts. It'll be proof they've been working together and everyone will be able to see it. But in the mean time, we're taking down PsyNex. This is it. We have to hit them hard, and we have to do it tonight. What Isaac's doing is, well, it's the cherry on top. But we also need to make a cake for it to go on.”

“I don't think that's the most adept metaphor, even though I get your point,” said Stiles.

“Feel free to make up a new one for me then,” Derek said, leaning back and crossing his arms.

Scott laughed, “No, don't, Stiles, you're definitely not good at them.”

Derek wasn't laughing though. “We need to coordinate a series of attacks, enough of them to send a message that we're serious and we won't back down 'til they desist.”

“You mean like, kill people? Like Peter was doing before?” Scott asked.

“No, it doesn't mean it has to be that. But...” Derek paused, “We need to target the middle people- the scientists, the office managers. We need them to know it's become hazardous to do their jobs, and thanks to Thomas and Danny, we have all kinds of documents with their information all over them. They don't have to be harmed, but we need to make them believe they will be if they continue, and we need to do it with an intensity they've never seen.”

“Shock and Awe,” Scott uttered as he nodded in deep thought.

“Well, I'm not sure that's the best name for it, given the last operation by that name but...” Stiles stopped himself, “Shock and Paw?” his head tilted to the side as he considered it.

Derek's head, on the other hand, shook back and forth, impatient as to the boys' musings. “Someone's going to need to do this,” he said. “Are both of you up to it?”

The two nodded. “Okay then,” Derek said approvingly. Stiles noticed he still seemed stressed as he watched his fists grasping the tablecloth. “What is it?”

Derek looked up at him, “Thomas isn't here yet, but he's going to send some people of his own out to do the same sort of things tonight. He'll be here when I text him, but I wanted to talk to you both alone, first.”

“Well, we're on board, so have him come on over,” said Scott.

“Before that, I need to tell you I have reservations about him,” Derek said.

Stiles crossed his arms, “I think I know where this is going.” Scott, on the other hand, didn't seem to understand, “What do you mean, you have reservations about him?”

“Maybe I misspoke,” said Derek, to which Scott nodded understandingly. “I said I have reservations about him, what I meant to say is that I don't trust him anymore, and once we finish PsyNex, I think we should call it quits.”

“What, are you crazy?” Scott asked, seeming suddenly alarmed, “You know once Psynex is out of the picture Peter's still going to be around, don't you?”

“I agree,” Stiles said.  
“Thank you,” Scott whispered in a vindicated tone.  
“No, I mean I agree he'll still be around, but I also agree we should leave.”

“And you think Thomas is just going to be okay with that?” Scott asked incredulously.

“If we frame it in the right way, then yes, I think so,” Derek offered, “In fact, he may actually welcome it. I don't see a negative reaction on his part as long as we play it cool and make it seem as if it's for any reason other than him.”

“But why don't you trust him anymore?” asked Scott, “Is it just a hunch?”

Derek didn't say anything for a moment, “Call it intuition.”

“I'd call that dressing up the word hunch,” said Scott. Derek noted Stiles' single raised eyebrow at the retort, and wondered if they both could see the flush he felt in his cheeks.

“There's something different about him,” said Derek pensively, “Or maybe something different that I just didn't see before. I don't think he's as innocent as he seems.”

Scott suddenly looked curious, “Is there any other reason?” Derek was staring down at his hands, folded on the cafe table, seeming to be far-off in thought. “Yes,” he said finally, “The truth is, this whole politics game, the power, the connivance, the intrigue…. It's not who I am, but that's become the only game in town.”  
__  
Scott and Stiles went out that night. It felt strange to be reunited, the two together on an adventure. Scott had missed it, and so had Stiles.

“Alright,” Scott said, as the two crouched behind some shrubs on the side of the street opposite a house in the quiet Oakland neighborhood, “You got this?”

Stiles nodded. Scott watched as Stiles breathed into his hand over some fine fine, strange dust, while he fanned it with a feather in the direction of the front door of the house. Scott looked up at the trees lining the avenue. The leaves began to rustle when a moment ago they'd been still. Then they ceased to move once more. Scott looked to Stiles, who'd stopped what he was doing and was now looking right back at him.

“Do _you_ got this too?” Stiles asked suddenly. Scott had a blank stare, then blushed, suddenly realizing he'd forgotten his part. He closed his eyes for just a second, and then his eyes re-appeared, glowing. Stiles flinched a moment at the sound of deep, hellish growl from his friend, and watched in amazement, as one by one, dogs started to appear out of the thickets of ornamental hedges, through dog flaps, and holes in fences. Dogs of all sizes, some with collars, some without, converged, some dozen and a half of them, towards the bushes where they were still crouched.

Stiles shrugged, seeming impressed, “Okay then,” he said. His comment was met by a slight smirk from Scott. Stiles looked back in the direction of the door, continuing his ritual. Scott watched as the breeze picked up again, but this time, the gentle undulations of the leaves quickly transformed into branches beginning to sway, and creak. Deceased foliage lying in the gutters began to make its way down the street in the direction of the house. What took Scott by surprise the most, was that looking down the street in the other direction, he also saw leaves moving in the direction of the house. “How are there two winds blowing towards one another on the same street?” he asked. Stiles ignored him, continuing to concentrate on the unknown words he whispered over hand, feather, and powder.

The winds grew more intense. A frightening whistling sound, now shrill and ominous, pierced the air. Then it stopped. The leaves stopped blowing, the trees stopped shaking, and the unholy sound ceased. Scott's eyes returned once more to Stiles, “What happened?”

“You'll see.” Stiles placed the feather on the ground, positioning it carefully to point dead-center at the house. He brushed the dust-like powder remaining in his palm on top of the feather. “Okay. Get ready for your part,” he said to Scott as he got up, “Wait! They'll see you!” said Scott. Stiles stood in a side stance, and was gazing intensely at the house across the street, as if he were about to get into a scrap with it. Then, Stiles lunged forward, startling Scott and all the dogs. Stiles' foot stomped down on the feather, and he hurtled over the bushes, his shoe kicking up the feather behind him. Scott watched as it flew back, then seemed to float and then drift over Stiles who was now standing in the street. Scott watched from behind, unsure of how it was possible, as Stiles thrust his hand up and grasped the feather floating over his head, bringing it between his palms, before lunging forward once more, and separating his hands as if he were pushing something away.

With that movement, it seemed that all the wind that had been blowing for the past few minutes, had somehow bottled itself up somewhere, and then released itself with a fury. Scott felt it come from behind him, slipping over him like a wave, as it hurtled towards the house. The sound of the air bursting against the structure was a mixture of wood groaning and glass breaking. The windows of the house blew out violently, and the front door splintered before falling inwards.

Scott bounded across the street, hounds in pursuit. They rushed into the house, spreading out, some across the first story, some rushing the stairs towards the second. The beasts began to tear everything apart: lamps were toppled and drapes were torn, shoes were gnarled, coats were pissed upon, televisions were felled, and the sofa, ripped asunder, wept stuffing at the ruin of its home.

And as the dogs began to file out, back out into the calm of the street, Stiles shook a can of spray paint and scrawled a message in red on the porch. Scott was the last one out, and shifted back as he exited the blown-out entryway. He looked down, as Stiles' canister stopped hissing and he returned it to his sack.  
“What does that mean?”  
“ _Cave Lupum_ ,” Stiles said, “It's Latin.”  
“Why are you writing in Latin?” Scott asked.  
Stiles shrugged, “Meh, just seemed more dramatic.”  
“You're probably the only person to ever tag a house in a classical language,” Scott said chuckling.  
“Actually, ancient graffiti is well documented… Romans, Greeks, Vikings, the whole lot. In fact, if you go to Pompeii...”  
“We should probably get going,” Scott interrupted. He shot a glance towards the house next door where a little girl was peeking her head out the window to see what all the commotion had been.  
The two of them took off before anyone else in the neighborhood caught a glimpse of them.  
“What does it mean, _cave lupum_?” asked Scott, as they rounded a corner.  
Stiles looked over at Scott, “Beware the wolf.”  
Scott chuckled, “That is dramatic.”

__

Across the bay area, in Sacramento, and farther South, wolves from Thomas', Dorian's, and Ariel's packs destroyed cars and homes of PsyNex employees. The message had become clear. They were no longer welcome in California if they continued to associate with the company.

Dorian had gone the extra length to drive home the point. He'd laid a pinewood coffin at the steps of a mid-level manager's house with the name of the man written inside it. He left a hammer next to it and had used a permanent marker to write PsyNex down the length of the handle. Perhaps the symbolism would have been clear enough, but Dorian couldn't keep himself from lining up some nails, all pointing upwards, right outside the door. _In case they miss the point_ , he laughed to himself, leaving his message to be discovered.

As Thomas, Derek, Scott, and Stiles returned to the townhouses after their night of mischief, they relaxed as they considered the evening's activities. Danny, who sat in the corner, had been posting onto forums the name and places of each attack on a PsyNex employee. Thomas turned on the television after checking his watch. “Let's see if channel ten has any newsworthy information,” he said.

It was sports. Thomas groaned as the overgrown bald man in a garish suit rambled about the latest results of some competition. All of them, however, had their attention brutally redirected upstairs at the sound of a thud and a cry from what sounded like Danny's mom, “ _Help!_ ”

Derek leaped up and was the first to race towards the plea. Everyone followed quickly on his heels and they stopped at the sight of Danny's mother in Derek's bedroom kneeling down by one of the rescued wolves. She was cradling his head with one hand, trying to reach for the blanket at the foot of the bed. The wolf was shaking violently beside her. Derek, seeing her hand just out of reach of the blanket, grabbed it for her. She quickly put it underneath the wolf's head, making a cushion between his skull and the floor.

“Just give him some space,” she said to the gathering crowd, holding up her hand.

“What's happening to him?” Danny asked in a panic from the door.

“It's a seizure,” she said, “Get Dr. Deaton's bag.” Danny rushed to the nightstand and grabbed it, bringing it over to his mother.

“Keep an eye on his head,” she commanded Derek, as she began to rifle through the contents of the bag. She paused for a moment, pulling out a small bottle. “Good,” she muttered to herself. She looked over at the seizing wolf, “Turn him on his side. He could choke otherwise,” she said, as drool began to pool out of his mouth accompanied by the sound of wheezing.

Thomas was pacing back and forth, unsure of what it was he could possibly do, and feeling completely helpless. Stiles, oddly enough, was calmer, and Thomas noticed all of the sudden that he'd been pointing his Blackberry the whole time at the scene in front of them. “What are you doing?” Thomas asked in a voice just above a whisper, his teeth clenched as he stared Stiles down. “Recording,” Stiles responded. “That's so inappropriate,” Thomas objected, swatting at the phone. “No,” said Stiles, refocusing, “It's real, and it'll help if we post this so people can see what PsyNex is doing.”

Thomas relented as Danny's mom replaced the cap of the bottle she'd found with a special white nozzle, shaped like a cone with two wings. She went over to the wolf and knelt down near his head. His eyes looked so distant and blank, unshaken by the sporadic fit of a shoulder or an arm, so unperturbed by the spit trickling uncontrollably from his mouth onto the blanket. He looked the least concerned of anyone in the room, unaware of how scared the people all around him were for him.

“You're going to be okay,” Danny's mom said in a soothing voice, as she stroked his hair. She gently pushed the nozzle of the bottle up into one of his nostrils and pressed down on the little plastic wings. There was a soft noise as the bottle let loose a spray of medicine. Danny's mom removed it and went to the bathroom where she retrieved a glass of water.

“He should be much better soon,” she said, as she placed the water on the nightstand and took the nozzle off the bottle. She found a rubber dropper in Deaton's bag and used it to dispense a few drops of the liquid into the water. She gave it to one of the other rescued wolves. “Why do I have to take it?” she asked. “You don't,” replied Danny's mom, “But it's to prevent that,” she said, pointing to the wolf on the ground. The other wolf nodded unhesitatingly before gulping down the glass, and Danny's mom proceeded to prepare the same mixture for the other two wolves.

“I think it's subsiding,” Derek said, “What did you give him?”

“Benzodiazepine,” said Danny's mom. “I have a feeling the removal of the crab made the neurotransmitters in his head go into overdrive. When that happens, it can cause seizures. I'll talk to Deaton, but we may have to administer dosages for all four of the wolves and slowly ween them off of it to give the brain time to adjust back to normal.

Scott helped Derek move the wolf from the floor to the bed, laying him next to Ariel, who was still sleeping. The room cleared out once the commotion was over, and Derek noted that Stiles and Danny exited together. He wondered where they were, but felt a more pressing need to speak to Danny's mom.

“I'm sorry,” he said.  
“For what?”  
“For telling Deaton to remove those things. He said himself he wasn't sure it was a good idea, not at least until he could see exactly what they were doing. I was just afraid they could have been traceable.”

Danny's mom put a hand on his shoulder, “Your concerns were legitimate.” Derek looked comforted for a moment, before she continued, “But he was right. We still don't know if there will be any other effects. We'll have to keep an eye on them. Hopefully this was the worst. At least this is fixable.”

“Yeah, well...” Derek's hands were shoved inside his pockets now. He was doing everything he could to hold eye contact with her, but couldn't quite do so. “Anyway I'm sorry,” he finished, speaking to the floor.

“It's okay,” she said, giving him a hug, “I know your heart's in the right place.”

Thomas and Derek returned to the common area. Immediately upon descending the stairs they both noticed the television, still turned to the news, but now showing an inferno and a story title with the words “Fertilizer Plant.” Thomas clapped is hands, looking pleased.

Derek was more reserved, “It looks like they did it.”

“Yeah,” Thomas confirmed, “This is it.”

“Do you think it'll be enough? This and the few attacks we can carry out on our own? It's a big company,” Derek mused.

“I think that soon we'll have a lot more friends to help us,” Thomas said in a cautiously optimistic tone.

Stiles came down a little later and sat on the sofa next to Derek, who put his arm around his shoulder.

“Where did you go off to?” Derek asked.  
“Just helping Danny with some computer stuff,” said Stiles simply.  
“So he's back on the computer again, huh? Don't know when we decided that,” Derek replied gruffly.  
“He's helping, and I don't think you need to mistrust him, Derek. We don't have enough friends to start picking and choosing these days.”  
Derek sighed, “Maybe, maybe not,” he said, and Stiles gave a look of complete confusion, but decided not to ask, and instead re-positioned Derek's arm, so that it draped more snugly around his neck as they sat there in silence.

Danny walked into the room, “You should see this,” he said, plopping a laptop onto the coffee table in front of Derek who looked him in the eyes as if to tell him _I thought I told you to stay off…_  
A look which Danny seemed to interpret correctly, but dismissed with an _I know, but just look,_ expression.

There it was. The website Danny had created, and on the front page, blaring headlines, “Peter Hale Collaborates With PsyNex,” and “Bank Deposits Proof of Corruption.” As Danny clicked on each story, one by one, supporting documents leaked appeared, thanks to Thomas and Danny's hacking efforts.

But this wasn't the only thing that Danny wanted to show them. “Look,” he said, opening his email. There were four messages, and a fifth popped up as they were looking at them. “They're from different packs saying they've been reading the articles and looking at the evidence, and that they're done with Peter,” said Danny.

“And they want to join us?” Derek asked, his interest now piqued.

Danny hesitated, “Well,” he started, before clearing his throat,

“Well what?” asked Derek impatiently, suddenly becoming annoyed at the hiccup in his good news.

“They want to, yes, but… us seems a little off. They're rallying around Thomas, specifically. He's the Head of Council, after all.”

“Hmmm,” Derek murmured quietly, before perking up. “Good, thank you, Danny. Keep up the good work.” Derek patted him on the shoulder approvingly as Danny scooped up his laptop before hastily exiting the room to eagerly continue watching events unfold.

Stiles and Derek were alone now.

Stiles turned to Derek, “Are you upset?”

“No,” said Derek, “No, I wouldn't say that. I wasn't ever interested in power, you know that. I've said as much. I was only ever interest in getting rid of PsNnex and keeping us safe.” Derek stroked his hand affectionately against Stiles' chin.

“I know,” Stiles said, “But you seem unsettled.”  
Derek hesitated, before admitting, “I am.”  
Stiles grabbed Derek's hand. “What is it?” he asked him.  
“I want to go home,” Derek said quietly.  
“We can go back to Beacon Hills soon. Everything's going to get better in no time,” Stiles tried to reassure him.  
“I don't mean Beacon Hills,” Derek said, to which Stiles reacted with surprise.  
“Where do you mean?”  
“I want to go back to Arizona- to the ranch,” Derek said.

Stiles looked at him a moment, “But, when you say home, your family house was always in Beacon Hills.”

“Not always,” said Derek, “And besides, home means something more than that. It's where you can feel like yourself, where you can feel safe, where you can feel rooted. Beacon Hills isn't that for me.”

Stiles nodded.

Derek turned to him, “But just because that means home to me, well,” he looked at Stiles with sad eyes, “I know what Beacon Hills means to you...”

“You're my home,” said Stiles suddenly.

Derek was momentarily taken aback, but Stiles watched as his sullen face slowly cracked the slightest of smiles as Derek leaned in and grabbed him in a hug. “Thank you,” he said.

“So how do we break the news to Thomas?” asked Stiles.

“I guess we'll just tell him the truth,” said Derek. “How else would we?”

“You know he may expect us to be supporting him. Do you really want to tell him, hey, we're going to shove off _because we're just not feeling it anymore, bro?_ ” Stiles asked mockingly.

“As far as I care, I don't owe him an explanation,” said Derek dismissively, though his shoulders were slumped, not quite matching the confidence he tried to project.

Stiles looked at him a moment without any reciprocation, but was finally rewarded by a slow turn of Derek's head towards him.

“What?” Derek asked suddenly.  
“Nothing, it's just… I'm glad to see you taking charge,” Stiles said.  
“It doesn't feel like that's what I'm doing,” said Derek, “It feels a lot more like running away, like I'm being a pussy.”

Stiles shook his head, “No, no it doesn't. It seems to me you're finally admitting to yourself who you are and what you want. Okay, you don't want to be the head of all the werewolves? So what? Who does? _Probably only an asshole_ ,” Stiles whispered.

“I'm still an alpha,” Derek said suddenly, “But what's an alpha without a pack?”

“You have Isaac, you have Scott, you have me,” Stiles insisted.

“Isaac,” Derek scoffed, “Isaac… barely, and Scott, Scott's an alpha, he's not part of my pack.”

“But he follows you, so, yes he is. An alpha that would do that means something more than a beta doing the same,” said Stiles. “Besides,” he added, “I told you I'm with you too.”

Danny ran into the room, “You guys!”

Derek and Stiles turned around to see what all the commotion was about. Danny stopped, heaving from his sprint, “The Internet's blowing up over all the documents we released,” he said.

“Well the Internet isn't really capable of blowing up,” Stiles started, “I mean it could, I guess technically, if all the computers….”

“Shut up,” Danny said, shushing Stiles with an upraised finger, the sight of which made Derek smirk, though he was careful not to let Stiles see.

Danny lowered his hand, “Where's your Blackberry?” he asked Derek, Derek patted his pockets, “I think I left it upstairs.”

Derek was about to get up to go retrieve it when Thomas barged into the room holding his phone in two hands and staring intensely at the screen as he tapped away on the keys.. “You guys, they're turning.”

“What do you mean they're turning?” asked Stiles, somewhat annoyed at the vagueness of the statement.

“They're turning from Peter to us,” said Thomas, who barely registered anything else that wasn't on his phone's screen.

“Who?” asked Derek, sitting up a bit more now.

“Packs in California, mostly, but a bunch of them. Riverside, San Diego, Palm Springs, Lake Forest…. They're all saying they're behind us.”

__  
Meanwhile in Oregon, a slightly less enthusiastic meeting was taking place between Peter and his pack. “This doesn't look good,” said Sharon, as she scrolled through her tablet, “Packs are starting to go to Thomas' side.”

“I didn't know Thomas had a side,” said Peter as he sat looking out the window.

Sharon looked over at him incredulously, “You didn't honestly think...”

“Of course I did. I knew it was a possibility. I wouldn't have put him in the position I did if I hadn't thought that. I just didn't expect him to have the balls to try and take my position.”

“So, what do we do?” Sharon asked.

Peter paused for a moment, “Well, it's obvious he's unhinged,” he said, “I mean they're complete fabrications, all of these supposed emails and documents he's purporting we've exchanged with PsyNex. I'd say I'm surprised that packs are already defecting to him. It's a disappointing testament to their loyalty and character.”

Sharon stared at him a moment before Mark jumped in, “We'll launch our own Internet campaign, denouncing these ridiculous lies. We can't let them sully what we've done. Lies won't stop us, and they shouldn't be allowed to dominate some discourse they created out of jealousy, or lunacy, or whatever it is driving them to say these things.”

“You're right, Mark,” Peter said, “Get to it, and speedily. This has become a problem we cannot ignore, and I offer you my apologies for not having anticipated it sooner.”

Mark left the room in a rush, hastily making his way to his computer.

“What now?” Sharon asked, as Eric stood silently by.

“Coordinate with Mark,” said Peter, “Start texting all of our contacts with the packs. They're trying to play for power through lies and we can't let people buy into them. Make sure they're still with us.”

Sharon nodded, as she quickly left the room, leaving Peter and Eric alone, as Peter brooded on the sofa.

Eric approached, and Peter looked up, “Isaac betrayed us.”

Eric nodded silently with a grimace.

“It's war then, isn't it?” he asked.

“It certainly isn't peace,” said Peter.

“And what about PsyNex… the government?” asked Eric.

“It seems that all these inconveniences have led them to believe they might be better off shutting down their project,” said Peter, swirling a swizzle stick in his drink.

“After everything they've invested, after everything we've done?” Eric asked disbelievingly.

“Not a total loss, was it though?” said Peter who was unfazed, “We made a lot of money out of it, and the more important thing is we galvanized the packs. We haven't been united in millenia, Eric. Now we are. Could we have been without a threat from the outside? And look who leads this new united community. It's not a loss. It's a victory if you really think about it.”

Eric peered at Peter, as if judging his sanity, “Are we united?” he asked, “Because Thomas seems to have convinced a lot of people we were involved with this.”

Peter put down his drink, “Sit,” he said. Eric did so immediately on the sofa next to him.

“What people read, be it a newspaper, or a magazine, or a website, they choose to read because they hope it will tell them what they want to hear. For example, liberals rarely read conservative journals and vice-versa. They just want to be 'informed,' but at the same time they don't want to have people contradicting their view of the world while doing it, which means they are 'informed,' but only to a certain version of events.

“Well, how do you know what's the right version?” Eric asked.

“You don't. Not without a lot of hard effort digging into the details of solid, verifiable facts,” Peter said, “And by the time you've parsed it all out, made your conclusion, poof!” he said, throwing his hands up in the air, “the matter's come and gone and you're ready to talk about something no one cares about anymore, because they've already made up their minds.”

Eric nodded, “I know what we're doing is right. We were protecting our people.”

“Exactly,” Peter said, “The government and big business were hell-bent on kidnapping our wolves. We stepped in and we united our people, made them stronger. Some are saying we allowed abductions. I say, we couldn't have stopped them anyway until we were strong enough, and yes, we took money from them, without helping them at all. That's not betrayal, that's not treachery to our own, that's highway robbery, and it was smart. We were just fooling them. We fought them, we hit them all over, and all the while we were taking their money, making ourselves stronger at their expense.”

“And now they're out… mission accomplished,” said Eric quietly.

“For now,” Peter replied, “But they may come back if all we've worked for falls apart. If they see we're divided, they may come back. We can't afford to lose our unity.”

“So what can we do?”

“I put a tracker underneath the car Isaac drove here when he visited us,” Peter said, making Eric turn his head in surprise.

“Yes,” Peter confirmed, “While you were both out back in your shed, I took the liberty of planting it. And now we know right where Thomas Reader is.”

“You didn't trust Isaac?” Eric asked.

“No, on the contrary I'm embarrassed to say I did,” said Peter, “I just wanted to make sure if something happened to him, if he failed, we'd know where to follow up with a second strike.”

“Another bomb then?”

Peter shook his head, “No, actually, I want you just to take out Thomas, no one else, unless you have to. Make it surgical. Let's not be the Air Force and go blowing up a hundred people just to get at one. I don't want any martyrs, but I'll suffer one martyr over a hundred of them if I can help it.”

“And Isaac, after his betrayal?” Eric asked.

“Isaac is a fish too small to fry at this point, my friend,” Peter said. “He'll have his day, though, just like everyone does.”

“I can do that for you, for the cause. Thomas will be taken care of and with minimal casualties,” Eric affirmed.

“Good,” Peter said, “We need to show the packs that things like lies, dissent, and betrayal will not be tolerated. We are not weak. We are one. It has to be this way if we're to survive.”


	17. Back to the Mountains

Thomas decided he'd take a walk. He'd taken them with increasing frequency in the last few days. It was a sort of foot patrol, a walk of the perimeter, just keeping an eye on the place. He'd done most of these promenades around the streets of Oakland by himself. The time alone and the fresh air might have been an opportunity to decompress, but doing so would have meant he'd have been distracted from whatever threat might be lurking around a corner, or somewhere in the shadows. It was his territory, and he couldn't afford to relax, and Thomas had slowly made the perimeter of his walks expand.

Although Thomas had usually walked the perimeter by himself, as tensions began to heighten he was, now, normally accompanied. He'd made it very clear, “This isn't a social walk. We can talk, but the priority is making sure the neighborhood is safe.”

“Who wants to go?” asked Thomas on Monday, as he was getting ready for his morning meander. Scott put up his hand, reluctantly, while Thomas was putting on his gloves and scarf. Thomas looked over, seeing Scott's raised hand in his periphery. “Alright,” he said, “Let's go.”

The two left the townhouse after Scott had retrieved his jacket. “This is the first time you've volunteered for this, isn't it?” asked Thomas, as they walked down the sidewalk side by side. “Yeah,” said Scott, as they exited the building. They turned right, and Thomas pointed out ahead of him.

 

We'll just go four blocks down and then make a right. “Alright,” Scott said, shoving his hands into his jacket's pockets. Three blocks on their way, the two were passing a convenience store. It was a squalid, one story building, with neon signs obscured by barred windows.

Scott seemed nervous as he spotted two men stooped on the concrete sidewalk in front of the store's entrance. It was something about how two or more aspects of a person's demeanor, innocuous by themselves, could, when combined, easily make someone look suspicious. Their clothes were too large, and had holes. What was more, they were loitering outside a convenience store in the middle of the morning. They walked with a hunch... _They're walking our way_ , Scott thought, his heart beating a little faster. Scott looked quickly at Thomas, who glanced over at the men who approached. They were still a little ways off when one of them started to speak, “Hey buddies, we were wondering...”

But both of the men froze and turned back towards the convenience store as Thomas' eyes glowed menacingly in response.

“Did you just shift out in public over that?” asked Scott, completely shocked.  
“Just a partial shift,” Thomas said, “Look at them, with their buddy this and that. If strangers treat you like a friend, something's up. And that goes especially for random people hanging out on the street.”  
Scott wasn't distracted by Thomas' life lessons, “But should you really be shifting so casually? I mean, don't you care? People talk."  
“Who would believe them? Those assholes are probably on drugs, and if they're not that's what they want. If they told anyone, it'd just be their friends, who'd also be druggies telling stories about a 'dude with glowing eyes.'”

“I still think a low profile's a better way to go,” Scott said, “And when did you get so cynical? I mean, I didn't get good vibes from them either, but dang man, you had their life stories already written.”

“If I'd stayed human, what do you think would have happened?” Thomas asked impatiently, “Look at me. I'm a target. I'm thin, small. I look like I'm off to the library. I'm sick of getting kicked around.”

They rounded the corner at the fourth block and made their way up the street. Scott tensed at the silence, before finally asking, “Are you doing okay?”  
“Never been better, why?”  
Scott didn't know what to say, considering Thomas' earlier outburst, but he had to at least say something, 

“There's just been a lot happening. It seems stressful for you,” said Scott, who immediately regretted the clinical nature of his explanation. He sounded like a therapist too afraid to voice his concerns.

“It's all fine,” Thomas replied, not seeming to notice. “I think things are going in a good direction, knock on wood.”

“Alright,” said Scott, trying to keep the skepticism out of his voice.

They walked around another corner, and suddenly, Eric appeared, accompanied by two other wolves. There wasn't even time to recognize the others, Thomas and Scott were totally unprepared. The two looked at each other in panic just before Eric swiped a paw across Thomas' face, shredding it so that the blood that issued obscured his vision.

As Thomas howled in pain, Scott transformed and thrust himself at Eric, pushing him back with claws extended, so that they dug deep into his chest, before Eric fell off balance and landed on the pavement. One of the other wolves with Eric made his move from just behind and to Scott's right, but Scott caught wind of it and was too fast. He pivoted, roaring, and swung his hand, talons at the ready, scraping them straight across the attacker's belly, felling him before he could harm his target. He turned to the other wolf, who now seemed unsure of how to approach Scott. Scott gazed at him, waiting, daring him to make a move that could very well be his last. And just when Scott thought that the swaying, indecisive wolf might simply run away, a figure leaped out from the left and began mauling it. Richard watched as Derek ruined his would-be attacker.

Derek looked up, blood spilling from his mouth.

Scott was startled, “How did you...”

“I heard Thomas and you howl,” Derek said, panting, as he got up from the ground where his victim stayed unstirring.

Scott looked over at Thomas who remained on the ground, his hands covering his face as he wheezed. Derek knelt down beside him and pulled off his scarf to wipe away the blood covering Thomas' face. With all of it gone, he started to become recognizable. The gashes were slowly healing, and Thomas was able to sit up on his elbows.

Derek looked over at Eric, who himself was appearing to recover. In his mind, Derek knew what to do. He'd stomp on his neck, breaking his spinal column, then disgorge him for good measure. He leaned in, about to carry out his task of slicing apart Eric's s still exposed neck, when he was suddenly stopped by a cry from Scott.

“No!” he shouted, causing Derek to turn around.

“Let him live,” Scott pleaded, looking into Derek's unsympathetic eyes.  
“What?” asked Derek distractedly.  
“Let him go,” Scott said.  
“Why should I do that?”  
“Send him back to Peter. Show him we're better than him,” said Scott.

Derek paused for a moment, considering, before he pulled his foot off of Eric's chest. “Fine,” he said, turning to Scott as he made his way to leave. He looked back a moment, “Give Peter my regards,” he spat down at the still supine Eric, “And tell him to leave me alone,” he muttered, though he knew everyone could hear it.

Scott helped Thomas to his feet, and they both followed Derek out of the alleyway in which they'd been ambushed.

They made their way back to the townhouses with more than a few nervous glances over their shoulders. Thomas went upstairs into his own flat to shower, getting rid of all the blood that still caked him. He entered the common area, where Derek sat with Scott and Stiles on one couch. Danny sat on a couch off to their right. Danny's mother, Maria, and Deaton all stood off in the foreground near the kitchen. Thomas closed the door that separated the two townhouses. Everything was quiet.

“Well, they obviously know where we are now. That gives us limited time,” he said. No one said a word, until Stiles piped up, “What do you suppose we should do?”

Thomas paused for a moment, thinking about their options. “We've had a lot of packs come over to us after the emails we released. They'd rally behind us if we made the call. They would bring us troops, as it were.”

“Wolves that would stand by us? Protect us? Wolves that would fight?” asked Scott.

“Yes, I'm sure many of them would,” said Thomas.

“But here in the middle of a major city, on crowded streets, in plain view of thousands of people? Were you out of your mind when you just said that?” asked Derek without so much as a thought to how he might come across.

“Isn't that our greatest protection?” Thomas asked. “We're in the middle of all these people, people who can't conceive of the idea that werewolves exist. It would blow their minds if they found out.”

“Somehow, I think Peter would be willing to blow the lid off the whole werewolf secret over this,” said Deaton from the kitchen.

“We should go back to Arizona,” said Stiles, all of the sudden.

Thomas laughed, “Yeah, I don't know about the middle of nowhere.”

“No,” said Maria from the kitchen, “Stiles is right.”

“We won't have any support! You're talking logistical nonsense!” Thomas cried.

“You don't know nothing,” said Maria, “Certain places have power, but I'm not sure you'll ever understand that. _Vámonos ya, coño_! 

Thomas looked over at Maria and Deaton. “She's saying it makes sense to go back there,” said Danny's mother, impatiently.

“I got that, thanks though,” said Thomas, perturbed.

Derek intervened, “They know where we are now, and they will be back. And maybe you're right, maybe they won't risk an outright confrontation in a crowded, urban area. Maybe we'll just have to walk out the door now, expecting we could get jumped in an alley. Is that any better, hmm? To be picked off one by one? Will you take responsibility when that happens? Or maybe,” Derek shrugged, “Maybe they just stop giving a fuck about the general public and set off a car bomb right outside, or maybe they'll just break down the door with a hundred loyal wolves. You realize they still have a lot of supporters, right?”

“They do, but now so do we,” said Thomas defensively.

“And where will they be when the time comes? When Peter knocks on the door half a second before he kicks it down?”

Thomas remained silent.

“You're a fool if you stay,” said Danny's mother, who came over and put her hand on Thomas' shoulder, “And I don't think you're a fool.”

Thomas shook it off, “You don't know what you're talking about.” Danny's mother raised an eyebrow but Thomas wasn't even looking.

“Why did you say we should move into cities at the first Folkmoot,” asked Derek, following Danny's mother's lead.

Thomas paused before responding, “To stay anonymous…. Out of sight,”

“Are you either of those things anymore?” asked Derek.

“No.” Thomas admitted, trying to ignore the sound of Maria's “Mhmmmmmm,” as she swirled a wooden cooking spoon in the air.

“I just,” he paused, “ugh, alright.”

He pushed his fist into the sofa, “We'll go.”

Derek nodded in approval, “It doesn't mean you're leaving forever, just for a little while, 'til things calm down.”

“I can live with that,” Thomas said.

__

The next day the townhouses emptied. Vehicles left, little by little, from the bay area towards the Arizona mountains. Scott sat sandwiched between Thomas and Maria in the back of a large rental sedan. He nodded off occasionally, bored by the lack of anything to do and the white noise from tires rolling over highway pavement. Or perhaps it was the incessant comments from Thomas that made him wish to escape.

“I know I said I'd do this, but I still think it's a mistake.”  
“Yeah, well, you should have decided that before all of us left,” Derek replied tersely.

“Peter's going to know exactly where we are,” said Thomas.  
“He already did. We've discussed this at length,” said Derek.  
“Well, it seems you set up a false dichotomy- two options, stay, or go to the ranch. Why didn't we discuss just moving locations to a new, unknown location?”  
“I don't know,” Derek replied. “Maybe because you weren't clever enough to suggest it at the time we made our decision.”  
“They'll always find you,” Maria said darkly, “You can run for the rest of your life if you like, but they will find you, and then you will be dead all the same, except maybe you'll have had a few more days, or months, _ha_ , maybe even years of running like a scared little child. Run away if you want little one, no one will stop you.”  
“I'm not running away, I'm just thinking strategically.”  
Maria rolled her eyes, “Whatever you say.”

“How much longer?” asked Scott, in a brief moment of lucidity.

“I don't know, we have another five hundred miles or so to go,” Derek said, “It'll probably be another seven or eight hours, we're only just getting into Barton now. We're not even near the Arizona border yet.”

“Ugggghhhh, it feels like we've been driving forever,” moaned Scott, as he threw his head back dramatically.

“It actually feels like I'm the one who's been driving forever,” said Derek, as he pulled into a gas station. Derek pumped fuel while Stiles went in with a list of snacks and drinks from Maria. It had been pre-written, as there was no way she ever could have assembled such a shopping list in the few seconds between when Stiles declared his intention of going into the store and when he reached for the door handle.

A few minutes later, Stiles returned as Derek was finishing up at the pump. “That was quite the list,” he said, handing the bag to Maria.

“Yeah yeah, laugh it up, I'm a growing girl, and I get angry when I'm hungry,” said Maria, rifling through the bag. She started handing out snacks: Cheetos for Scott, beef jerky for Derek, a bag of Funyuns for Stiles, and a bag of M&M's for Thomas.

“The rest is for me!” said Maria, staring down into the bag like some kind of predator. “Oh,” she paused, “actually, no, I missed one. Here Thomas,” she said as she pulled out a bottle of Dr. Pepper. She made a grunting noise as she unscrewed the cap before handing the soda to him.

“Oh thanks, Maria, that's my favorite,” Thomas said appreciatively.  
“I know,” she said, “You may be a brat, but you're my brat.”  
Thomas grimaced, somewhat offended by the comment, “Well… thank you, I guess?”

They continued down the highway with hundreds of miles before them, and Scott, renewed in spirit by his Cheetos was talking with Maria, who had herself become involved with a bag of Fritos she was dipping into nacho cheese sauce. Then, in mid-sentence, Scott stopped speaking. He heard the sound of something that sounded like marbles hitting the car floor. He looked over at Thomas whose head had slumped to the side, and Scott watched as a bit of drool dripped down his cheek.

“Huh,” said Scott, “Looks like Thomas is asleep, and he dropped his M&Ms."

"Great, we'll have to clean those up before we return the rental car,” Derek sighed.

“All of them?” asked Maria.  
“All of what?” Scott asked, confused.  
“All the M&Ms,” said Maria.

Scott slowly grabbed the bag out of Thomas' limp hand and shook it. “Yeah, there are still a few in there.”  
“Give them to me,” said Maria, as she grabbed the bag and emptied it into her mouth, as if it were a funnel, while Scott looked on, horrified.

A voice came from the front, passenger seat, “I put two Benadryl in that soda, just to be on the safe time,” said Stiles.

“Excellent work, _mijo_.”  
“Your shopping list was very detailed,” Stiles added, “I've never crushed up tablets in a truck stop bathroom with a knife before.”

“How could that knock him out?” Scott asked, “I can't even get drunk, so how does that work?”  
“You can't get drunk because your body treats alcohol as if it were a poison,” said Maria, “It does not do that for a drug like Benadryl.”

“What are you going to do to him?” asked Scott, “I mean, don't get me wrong, I like him better this way...”

“Me too,” Derek chimed in.

“Nothing,” said Maria, “He was just being annoying.”

Stiles looked over at Derek who snorted.

The car traveled onward, a bit more peaceful now, the occupants eager to make it to their destination. Eventually, in the early hours of the morning, Stiles recognized the small town of Payson in the mountain woods, and more specifically, the small diner in that small town, where he and Derek had stopped on their way to the ranch the first time.

Thomas was groggy, but awake, and the group ate, mostly silently, at a table for four, as Derek declined to sit with them as he preferred the counter to catch up with the waitress, Louise, he'd known for many years, and whom Stiles remembered fondly from their last breakfast here as a cheerful, welcoming person. Through several glances upwards from his plate of huevos rancheros, Stiles watched Derek hunched over the counter, talking with Louise, who rather than beaming with a smile, instead showed evidence of concern. Stiles said nothing, but chanced a glance at Maria who sat next to him and who knew exactly where he'd been looking,

“Don't worry,” she said, “Finish your eggs before I finish them for you.”  
Stiles noted the nearly empty plate where once biscuits and gravy had been served before Maria had obliterated them, and he quickly picked up his fork again.

They left the diner, and Louise hugged them all on the way out, “See you all soon,” she said, waiving goodbye as they got back into the car. They pulled out and headed down the road, east, towards the ranch, still quite a ways off.

Some time later, they rolled up to the now-familiar front gate, same as it had been before- bare, and metal, and latched. Stiles got out of the car to open it, when he heard the distinctive sound of a shotgun being pumped. He looked up, and there was Isaac, grinning down at him from his usual tree.

“I see you made it,” Isaac said.  
“I'll say the same,” Stiles replied

Isaac tilted the shotgun towards the gate, and Stiles headed over to unlatch it.

They drove up to the house, where some other cars were already parked. Heading inside, they found Deaton, seated at a desk in the foyer, busy taking notes.

“Ah, good to see you've arrived. You've had breakfast, I presume?” he asked, as he looked up from his paperwork.

“Bitch please, I don't go anywhere on an empty stomach,” said Maria.

“I truly do believe you, Maria, I truly do,” Deaton said, flinching at the sound of Maria tossing her handbag onto his desk on her way to the kitchen.

Stiles took his own bag and swung it over his shoulder, heading towards the master bedroom. He didn't wait for Derek, who was busy with Deaton relegating their guests to the various rooms of the house. Stiles deposited his bag in a hurry, then went back downstairs, and headed into the basement, where he found Danny.

“Made it alright?” asked Stiles.  
“Sure did, and we're up and running,” said Danny, over the sound of the keyboard clicking and clacking.

“Things might get rough, from the sound of it,” said Stiles, as nonchalantly as he could. He leaned a hand against the wall and sighed. Danny was too distracted to notice.

“Yeah,” he said, fingers still tapping away on his keyboard.

“So… what's the plan? Any news on the interwebs?” Stiles asked, trying to get Danny to open up.

“No,” said Danny, “The web's been dark, but we have plans being put into place. There were a lot of others who got here before you guys did.”

“Huh,” Stiles replied, sounding surprised, “Well alright then, good talk buddy,” he said as he patted the wall and made his way up the stairs to the main level. He went into the kitchen, where Maria had already donned an apron and was milling about. He went over to the door leading to the balcony and opened it, stepping into the cold air which caused him to shiver. He stepped towards the ledge and peered over the wooden railing. Below him were tents, many fewer than the first time he'd looked upon the Folkmoot at the ranch, but no small number either. Stiles went back inside, unconvinced that that this was the best of plans.

“Maria?” he asked, walking back into the kitchen.  
“Jes?”  
“Oh, well, that smells good,” Stiles said, suddenly distracted.  
“I take canned refried beans and heat them up in bacon fat,” she said, before turning the stove to low and wiping her hands with a towel, “What is up, _mijo_?”

“Well,” Stiles started, trying to be diplomatic, “I see a lot of people very tense.”  
“They should be,” said Maria. “Something is coming.”  
“How can you remain so calm?” asked Stiles.  
“Because that is all that I can do for now,” said Maria, simply.  
“I don't know about that, Maria… there's a lot at stake here.”

Maria went over to Stiles and wrapped him in a hug, before whispering into his ear, “I said for now. You will see _mijo_.”

Stiles knew the day was not yet over, but he decided to take his leave and go upstairs to take a nap.

“Don't sleep too long,” he heard Maria say, as he ascended the stairs.


	18. Digging In

Peter was playing billiards alone in the upstairs loft of his Portland home when the sound of a knock came at the door.

“Come in,” he said, knowing by his nose who it was already. He was anxious to hear the good news, and smiled as Eric opened the door.

That smile vanished precipitously to match the frown of his wolf underling passing through the threshold.

“I...” started Eric.

“What happened?” asked Peter, cutting him off.

“He wasn't alone,” Eric explained.

“What, does he have an entourage now?” asked Peter sarcastically.

“Not exactly,” said a nervous Eric. “He was walking with Scott this time. He doesn't normally walk with anyone.”

“I sent you with help, just in case,” said Peter. “You didn't show them very good leadership, did you?”

“No.”

“That embarrasses me, Eric, because when I send you on a mission, and put you in charge of others, and then you fuck up, it reflects very poorly on me. Do you understand that?” Peter asked.

“Y-yes,” said Eric quietly.

“Bring them in. I need to explain to them how you failed and how unacceptable this was,” said Peter.

Eric's eyes darted around the room, “I can't.”

“Why not?” asked Peter impatiently.

Eric paused for a moment as Peter waited for a response, “Because they didn't make it.”

The ceiling fan turned, and both listened to the revolving blades beat the air above.

 

Peter leaned his stick against the billiards table before turning his back and languidly walking over to a wet bar. “Drink?” he asked, as he poured out some whiskey from a decanter.

“No,” said a confused Eric, “That stuff doesn't have an effect on me… or you, for that matter. Why do you even drink that?”

“Because I like the taste,” Peter said simply, swirling his glass and then setting it down. Peter crossed his arms and let out an audible sniff, “Perhaps it is I who should take responsibility for this. I should have been more careful. We didn't have much time to research Thomas' routine and be certain of it. Had I known he would have company, I would have given you more backup.”

“It wasn't just Scott,” Eric said, jumping in, “Derek showed up at the end too.”

“And neither of them were hurt?” Peter asked.

“No, only Thomas,” said Eric, “I managed a good swipe across his face… not enough to kill him, though. Otherwise, it was pretty one-sided,” he admitted.

“I see,” said Peter, placing his hands behind his back. “They've moved out. They're no longer there,” he added, “So that opportunity is now gone.”

“How do you know?” asked Eric.

“I had someone watching their headquarters. It's how I knew to give you the route Thomas took. As I said, if I had known you would need additional help, I would have sent him with you, though I don't know if it would have made a difference,” said Peter, looking Eric up and down judgmentally.

Eric cowered, humiliated, “I'm so sorry, again, I really am. If you know where they are now, I'll make it up to you. I'll get him this time.”

“I know where they are,” said Peter, “They're either on their way or already at my family's ranch in Arizona.”

“I'll go at once." 

“No,” said Peter, “I'm sending Michael. You've done enough.”

Eric bowed his head, “I've failed you. I cannot say how sorry I am. I will make it up to you some day.”

“It's alright, dear friend. I've already said that I take the responsibility for this, and I truly mean it. The whole thing could have turned out even worse.” 

__

Some moments later in Seattle…

 

“Looks like we'll be taking a trip,” said Michael, who sat on the couch, leaning towards the coffee table.

“Who's going?” asked Christina, one of the wolves who'd been inhabiting the house.

“All of us.”

“What about Argent and Priscilla, what about Kira? What about Malia and Eric and the others from the Portland?”

“Haven't heard from Argent and Priscilla in a week, Kira too for that matter. They were supposedly doing munitions work at Priscilla's home in Spokane. I've tried to get in touch with them, but no one's responded. Malia's decided to stay in Portland with Peter and Lindsey. Eric... I don't know what's going on with him. I think it's probably best to assume none of them will be coming with us,” said Michael, as he rolled his eyes and gave a small sigh of exasperation.

Christina looked even more disheartened at the news, “Where are we going?” she asked.

"Peter's tasked us with a very special mission. We're going to Arizona, to his family's ranch where the first Folkmoot took place." 

“Are they having another one?” asked Christina.

“No.”

“Just going on vacation, or something?”

Michael shook his head.

“What are we going there for, then?” asked Christina.

“To kill Thomas, and everything and anyone who tries to stop us,” said Michael. 

“I don't think just the few of us would be enough for that,” said a hesitant Christina.

Michael laid his linen napkin down next to what was left of his dinner. 

“We won't be going alone,” Michael said, “We'll be going with a lot of support… more than enough, I think. Peter's assured me that several packs have already committed themselves to helping us.” 

“From what I've heard, some packs have defected to them. I guess they'll have their own support too.”

 

“It's true some packs have believed the ridiculous lies that Thomas has been spreading all over. It's no loss to us. If all it takes are a few fabricated emails to convince them to betray us, then at least it shows us the ones who have no sense of loyalty, and if nothing else, the ones who are idiots. I know it seems daunting, but perhaps it's a blessing in disguise. Some day, a more serious enemy might emerge, and by then we'll have culled the traitors and opportunists from the ranks. We'll be stronger for it, I hope.”

“So you'll just annihilate everyone?” Christina asked.

“No,” said Michael, “We're not barbarians, after all, Christina. Any beta will be spared so long as they have the good sense not to get in our way, and it's our job to bring as many wolves with us as possible to make it deadly clear that they stand no chance. Right now they're simply showing loyalty to their alpha, and that is commendable, if foolish given the circumstances. When all is said and done, however, their alphas will need to be replaced.”

“When do we leave?” asked Christina.

“As soon as we've drummed up enough support. Once we have the commitment of a sufficient number of wolves, we'll coordinate a time to strike.”

“Will Peter decide?” asked Christina.

“No,” said Michael, “Peter isn't coming. He's put me in charge. I'm his number one,” Michael added with a note of pride in his voice.

Christina departed to let the others know, and to steel herself for what would come, whenever it would. 

__

Back in Arizona, Stiles awoke from his nap. It was late. _Great_ , he thought, throwing off the covers in the dark bedroom, _This will do wonders for my sleep schedule_ , he said to himself as he retrieved his clothes from the corner chair.

Stiles went downstairs, trying not to make much noise. The clock in the bedroom had read eleven p.m., and he didn't want to wake anyone who might already be asleep. He winced each time an odd wooden step would groan under his feet, and he suddenly felt foolish, acting like a child trying to get downstairs past his bedtime without his parents waking up.

As late as it was, there were still sounds in the kitchen, though thy were muted. It sounded like the washing up, after a long day of feeding many hungry people. The doorbell rang, and Stiles reached the bottom of the stairs just in time to see Maria sigh in annoyance and shake her head, as she made her way to the door. “Welcome,” he heard her say, “Please come in, most welcome, yes, if you are hungry, we have many leftovers in the fridge. Help yourselves to whatever you like. I'll let Derek know you've come.” Maria yelled back over her shoulder, “He's in the library, go tell him we have more guests, Stiles!”

Stiles didn't move for a moment, like a deer trapped in headlights. He could have sworn she'd not seen him coming down the stairs. Stiles stared at her, confused as he ran it all through his head, then jumped when Maria turned around, and looked directly at him, “Go! Are you still sleepy?” Stiles shook out of his stupor at the question, and turned, rushing up the stairs to find Derek.

He knocked on the library door, but didn't bother for an answer before opening it. Suddenly realizing his rudeness, he apologized. 

“It's okay,” said Derek, who was at his desk, calm, and collected and seemingly unoffended.

“We just had more guests arrive,” Stiles explained.

“That's good news, but why tell me this time, and not the times the other packs arrived? Is there something wrong?” asked Derek.

“No, nothing wrong,” Stiles said, “I think, though… well Maria told me to come get you, that's all.”

Derek checked his watch, “I suppose it'll be because she wants to get going.”

“Going where?” asked Stiles.

“Not for me to say,” said Derek, getting up from his desk. He came around the desk and put his arm around Stiles' shoulder, “Let's go downstairs,” he said, guiding him towards the door.

“Are you ready?” said Maria abruptly, wringing her hands with a dish towel.

“I don't know,” said Stiles, “What am I supposed to be ready for?”

Deaton got up from the breakfast table, “We're going to secure a perimeter,” he explained, “We want to make sure this place is as protected as we can possibly make it. It might be a long night,” he warned.

Stiles nodded, “I guess I should get my cloak.”

“Yes, I think you better had,” Deaton responded calmly as he collected his satchel. 

Derek patted him on the back, “You'll be fine,” he said, “I've got more work to do.”

 

Stiles came back a couple of minutes later carrying his own items for the evening outing. It was no unfamiliar scene to him to see Deaton and Maria effectively 'suiting up,' as it were, in their ponchos and fastening various bags about their belts. Stiles noticed Deaton had a staff, though different from the one Maria had.

“Didn't know you needed a walking stick,” said Stiles, as he donned his cloak.

“This time, I suspect I might,” said Deaton, who rubbed shimmering dust over Stiles' cloak. He handed the bag from which he'd obtained the dust to Stiles, who immediately did the same for Deaton, though, he couldn't help but ask, “Do we need touch-ups with this stuff?”

Deaton laughed, “I don't know, to be honest. Just because we use it doesn't mean we know everything about it. We know it doesn't work every time, but whether it's a question of it wearing off, or if sometimes you simply can't stop fate, I do not know.”

“You want me to dust you one more time?” asked Stiles nervously.

Deaton laughed again, “No, I think we're okay with one application.” 

Stiles turned around, hearing Maria across the room, grunting as she struggled to tie her shoes, “You can come bring some to me. Pour it on me, Flash Dance style. I'd rather be a sparkle disco ball than dead.” 

When they were suitably prepared to leave, the three went outside onto the deck. Stiles noticed a few more encampments below than before, which heartened him somewhat. They descended the stairs and he saw next to the single-seat ATV they'd used before, there was now a four-seat ATV, waiting in the moonlight for them. 

“When did you manage to get that?” Deaton asked.

Then came a vaguely familiar Eastern European voice from behind, “I order special for you.”

Maria turned around, “Priscilla, it's good to see you. When did you get here? I thought you were in Washington.”

“We arrive yesterday,” she said, “We heard about what was going on behind the scenes, and we left.”

“Where's everyone else?” asked Stiles.

“Argent and Kira left to go make the, how you say, 'traps for the boobs,' in the forest.” 

“We were just about to head out ourselves to help secure a perimeter,” said Deaton, “Hopefully we won't come across one of their 'projects.'”

“The traps are for boobs. You are not boobs, correct?” replied Priscilla casually, “Still, maybe I go with you tonight.”

“If you wish, so be it,” said Deaton, with the sound of creaking shocks in the background as Maria got into the driver's seat.

Stiles got into the right rear seat, hoping to counterbalance the severe lilt Maria had caused to the ATV's suspension. It did very little. Deaton got into the passenger seat next to Maria, helping slightly more to re-adjust the balance of the vehicle. 

Priscilla came over after having ducked into the basement, returning, this time with a bag and a rifle slung over he shoulder. “Switch seats with me,” she whispered to Stiles.

“Why?”

“Because you're a twig of a human and I weigh more than you. Go, sit behind Maria,” said Priscilla.

“It's like we're trying to balance a fucking prop plane,” Stiles muttered to no one but himself.

It must have been by sheer coincidence then, that he heard a sudden noise: _BEEEEP!_ Maria's voice announced at a totally inappropriate volume,

“Lady and Gentlemens, please fasten your _cinturas_. We may experience some turbulence. Do not remove them until I have turned off the passenger safety sign.”

Deaton rolled his eyes, to which Maria responded, “I'm the pilot now, bitch.”

“Yeah, well we'll see if this thing holds up any better than my plane,” Deaton said, his voice half-way drowned out as Maria turned the ignition and the engine began to rumble.

They drove down the field, into the woods and towards the river. “What, are we going to encircle the whole property in mountain ash?” asked Stiles. 

“We wouldn't have nearly enough,” Deaton replied, Stiles' sarcasm lost on him. Maria forded the stream and the vehicle came out on the other side. She accelerated, up the path and then turned left, the ATV bumping and jerking violently over the rocks, so much so that Stiles put his hand around one of the metal columns and secretly thanked her for telling him to buckle up. They drove for five minutes in a part of the woods Stiles hadn't been before.

“Where are we?” he asked.

“We're at the west end of the ranch,” said Deaton, unbuckling his seat belt as the ATV came to a halt. He and Maria both got out, and Stiles decided to follow suit. He did note, however, that he hadn't heard anything from his right, and wondered whether Priscilla was coming or not. He looked over, and nearly jumped out of his seat at the sight of Priscilla's face covered by night vision goggles, looking like some cybernetic monster. Her head head rotated slowly, scanning the area around them.

“I stay here,” she said. 

Stiles clambered out of the vehicle without saying a word, his heart pounding from the startle. “So what do we do now?” he asked, catching up with Maria and Deaton.

“Do you recognize that tree?” asked Deaton, gesturing to one which stood apart from any others around it. It was tall, with a slender trunk but with a tall plume of leaves extending out from its branches in a shape not dissimilar to a mushroom cap.

“No, I've never been here before,” said Stiles.

Deaton chuckled in response, “The type of tree,” he clarified.

Stiles shook his head.

“That is _nin_ ,” he said, “The ash tree. The Hale family planted it at the west end of their property, where the sun sets. Some people believe it holds powers of divination.

“Some people, meaning you?” asked Stiles irreverently.

“Some people, like me,” Deaton confirmed, seemingly unperturbed.

Stiles stood where he was as Deaton approached the tree and lay some flowers at its base. Deaton removed a stick from his satchel and pointed it at the tree, making contact with its trunk, while muttering something inaudible for a few seconds. Finally, he produced a small glass jar of what looked to be water, and splashed the ground by the roots with a part of its contents.

Deaton returned to where Stiles and Maria stood. Maria had said nothing, nor had Stiles inquired as to the strange ritual. “Alright,” said Deaton without explanation, “Let's go.” They piled back into the ATV and Maria drove them back the way they had come, towards the gate which opened to the pastures at the north end of the property.

“That tree, there,” Deaton said, pointing to a tree which was much lower to the ground than the first, and which stood right beside the stream, “Do you know it?”

“No,” Stiles sighed, “I don't.”

“That is _coll_ , the hazel tree,” said Deaton, “You go to it when you seek wisdom.” Deaton approached the tree and performed the same rituals as he'd done with the ash tree. When he was finished, instead of returning to the group, he beckoned Stiles over to him. Stiles walked over, curious, and Deaton put his arm around him, ushering him over to the edge of the stream.

“Look,” said Deaton, leaning towards the water.

“At what?” asked Stiles, confused.

Then came a _plop_ , and Deaton pointed at the ripples spreading out from where a hazelnut had fallen.

Stiles was startled as Deaton burst out laughing, breaking the serious demeanor he'd possessed all evening.

“I'm sorry, what's so funny?” Stiles asked.

“The tree was telling us something.”

“And what did the wise tree counsel?” asked Stiles mockingly.

“That we should probably get on to the next tree soon,” said Deaton chuckling, wiping a tear from his eye, “It's a tree of wisdom, but it can also be a bit of a smart ass too.”

 

The four drove around the property to the east end.

 

“Do you-”

“No, I don't know what tree this is,” Stiles said, cutting Deaton off.

“It's _ibar_ ,” said Deaton, “The yew tree. It possesses powers for longevity, perhaps even immortality. The Hales planted this one as well, in the hopes that it would give long life to their ranch.”

“I supposed we have a fourth tree to visit?” asked Stiles, as they drove south after Deaton had finished.

“Indeed,” Deaton responded as they arrived at the main gate to the house. 

“Hello, Isaac,” Deaton said, as he hopped out of the ATV. Isaac gave something of a lazy grunt to acknowledge Deaton's greeting. He sat, as usual, on his branch, high up, cradling his shotgun. He virtually ignored Deaton's ceremony, until he heard the sound of water splashing against the tree, which caused him to look down, “Are you pissing down there?" 

“No, in fact, I am not,” said Deaton, as he re-corked his jar. “I could see where you might think so," he said calmly, “but pissing on trees is really more of a dog thing, isn't it, Isaac?”

Stiles looked over at Maria who was covering her mouth, and he noted Priscilla wore the ever-so-slightest smirk beneath her humongous sunglasses as they drove up to the house. 

“Do you know what tree that was?” asked Deaton, as they all got out.

“Yeah, actually,” Stiles replied. Deaton raised an eyebrow.

“It was an oak tree,” said Stiles.

“Very good,” Deaton said, “And what is special about the oak tree?”

Stiles paused. “I don't know,” he admitted.

“ _Dair_ , the oak, is a protector. It is strong, resilient, and steadfast. There's a reason it guards the front gate of the ranch, and a reason why Isaac chose to sit in it to protect the front gate, though I do not think he truly knows why he chose that tree in particular.”

“Hmmm,” Stiles hummed, and they all went into the house. Another pack had arrived by the look of it, and despite the fact that he had only awakened a few hours earlier, Stiles felt the pull of a yawn cleaving his jaw.

“You should sleep _mijo_ ,” Maria said.

“Will we be safe?” Stiles asked, rubbing his eyes, “I don't think I can sleep knowing they're coming.”

“You can never know if you're truly safe,” said Maria, who brushed Stiles' cheek tenderly. “You can only do what you must do. Nothing more.”

“I don't think we'll be expecting any nefarious visitors tonight,” said Deaton, “Although, Maria is right, you cannot know some things for certain. But don't be discouraged by that. Imagine a world where things were always certain.”

Maria scoffed and waived her arms dramatically in the air, “Ay, how boring a world it would be!”

Stiles gave a small smile, and Maria grabbed his shoulder gently, “Go, _mijo_ , _y no te preocupes por nada_.”

Stiles heaved some small sigh of relief before resigning himself to tromping up the stairs to the bedroom. He left the light off, as he entered it, dark, and unoccupied. The light from the hallway offered just enough illumination for him to see.

 _Why turn on a light, just to turn it off again?_ he thought, as he changed into his pyjamas. He was about to get into bed, but before he did, he went to the window, his interest seduced by something unusual. The large bedroom window facing north looked well beyond the encampments in the field below. In the distance, among the dark, shrouded forest beyond the field, Stiles glimpsed a pillar of swirling fireflies, all circling about one another. And off to the left, as Stiles got as close as possible to the glass, he could see in the distance another group of them. And just barely off to the right, another, a sentinel of the little creatures, like plumes of radiant embers spinning slowly in the dark. _That's beautiful_ , thought Stiles, and he became much more at ease at the comfort those lightning bugs brought him, and he climbed into bed, and the rest was dark.

__

Several days passed, and little seemed to be going on. Nothing seemed to stir in the forest around the ranch. The tranquility of the surroundings, once pleasantly comforting, now brought only anxious anticipation to the many who were there. The lurking tension was subtle. Stiles observed it outwardly only in the margins of small details of what was otherwise a feigned normality; the way someone would turn around a little quicker when Stiles would call their name, how peoples' eyes made less contact during conversation in order to free themselves to look around, the odd complaint by someone about the loudness of the ticking of the clock above the mantelpiece.

Maria, Deaton, and Stiles sat on the front porch and were playing cards, trying to relax, but not really chatting about much. It was fine, though. Life had to go on in some awkward way or another. Maria noticed Stiles look up at her as she put a mason jar full of what looked like lemonade to her lips. “Want some?” she asked, extending it towards him. “What is it?” Stiles asked, before he hurriedly put up his hands in refusal. “No, actually I don't want to know.”

“ _Heeee heeee heeee_ ,” Maria cackled, taking another swig.

 

All of the sudden, a shot rang out, but not from very far away. They looked over at Priscilla, who was standing by the side of the house, still holding a smoking rifle. “I miss,” she said, tutting herself, as she continued to focus down the scope. Stiles ran a few feet down the driveway when he saw Isaac drop from his perch and run towards something a ways down the road. He felt the rumble of ground, trodden at a vicious pace by wolves who responded to the sound of the shot, surging forth from behind him. 

Stiles rushed forward too, following them as they sped towards whatever it was Isaac now hunched over. The pack passing by him had moved so fast, it was impossible to distinguish who had gone by, but Stiles could have sworn he'd felt Derek among them. Perhaps he'd caught a glimpse, or maybe a scent, or perhaps the sound of a familiar growl. Stiles wasn't sure, but his suspicions were indeed confirmed as he caught up with the dozens of werewolves now gathered in a semi-circle. He wondered what was happening. There was no fighting, they all were simply standing there.

Stiles pushed his way through, unafraid, despite the fact he was surrounded by such a large group of transmuted beasts, who'd suddenly become still, eerily so, as if ready to attack.

“Goddamnit!” Stiles heard the crouched body lying on the ground say. Stiles cocked his head. It was Michael. Isaac knelt over him, his left hand on his shoulder, his right grasping Michael's arm as he helped him up. Stiles watched as Derek, already at the front of the packs, moved forward.

“Hell of a welcome,” Michael said, gasping, as Isaac withdrew.

Derek was in no mood. “What do you want?” he asked.

Stiles studied Michael, who from the ground surveyed the panoply of wolves arrayed before him, any one of who would have gladly torn his throat out and spit it on the ground for the vultures. He seemed calm, though, like some foreign dignitary who had suffered a minor insult, as he got up and dusted off his coat.

Michael coughed from the dust. “Peter wants to talk with you.”

“Well, where is he then?”

Michael shook his head, “He's not here, but I have a phone with a secure link. He's waiting.”

Derek let out a short laugh, “What's there to talk about with an uncle who can't be bothered to come himself?”

Michael remained demure, “I couldn't say. All I can attest to is that he sent me here with the intent that you two might speak.”

 

Derek squinted, judging the squat, feeble looking man-wolf. “Alright,” he conceded, as he turned around. He jerked his head in the direction of the house, motioning for everyone to go back. There were a few awkward seconds in which no one moved, before finally they all understood that he was, in fact, serious. Derek walked with Michael down the road towards some unknown place with unknown wolves in unknown numbers.

Stiles whispered to Deaton, “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“Derek knows what he's doing,” Deaton said, as he patted Stiles on the shoulder reassuringly.

“You certainly know how to make your receptions warm,” said Michael, rubbing his shoulder, as the two went down the gravel road.

“Apologies,” Derek said, “One of our guests is a little trigger happy.”

There was a lull, before Derek added, “I take it this isn't a trap.”

Both of them kept walking, heads straight forward. They'd reached the forest road, and had turned left, before beginning to descend a small ditch into the woods. “No,” Michael grunted from the exertion, “it's not a trap, Derek. Not everything in life is a trap.”

“You could have fooled me,” Derek said as the two came to a halt, “Where's your encampment?” he asked Michael.

Michael guffawed at the question, “It's not a trap, but please don't think I'd tell you where my people are. I'm trying to do the right thing here, Derek, but I'm not a charity.”

“So why go off into the woods?” Derek asked as he watched Michael pull out a cellphone. Michael scrolled down to Peter's name and pressed call, “Because I wanted us to be out of earshot, and by the way, it's dialing.”

Derek snatched the phone out of Michael's hand and placed it against his ear. It rang several times, before Derek heard someone pick up. “Yes?” said a voice from the other end. It was indeed Peter, Derek recognized the voice instantly.

“It's Derek.”

Peter's voice sounded less arrogant than normal. It had been replaced with a tone which seemed...relieved. Yet, Derek did not take that as comforting.

“I'm glad to hear you. Are you alright?” Peter asked.

“I'm fine,” said Derek tersely.

“Please believe me when I say I'm glad to hear you,” came the voice from the other end of the line.

Derek glanced over at Michael, who stood, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, gazing out towards the woods as if to give them some privacy. Derek knew he could hear everything they both said. “What do you want?” he asked Peter, agitated now by the whole thing.

“Thomas,” said Peter simply, “Give him to me. That's all I want.”

“That's all you want, is it?”

“It is,” Peter confirmed.

“And then the next week it'll be me, won't it, Uncle?” asked Derek.

“I've never had the intention to hurt you, Derek.”

Derek laughed, “Like sending those army _dogs_ and their masters after Scott and me when we left the second Folkmoot under less than pleasant circumstances? What an interesting coincidence that was. What was your intention then?”

There was a pause. “I, ummm,” started Peter.

Derek laughed again, “You, ummm, what? You didn't intend for them to fail at _murdering us_?” he asked tauntingly, “Was that _inconvenient_ for you?”

“If you'd let me finish… I was going to tell you I never ordered that attack,” explained Peter, now himself annoyed.

“Right,” Derek said, taking the time to draw out his response.

“Derek, I've never tried to do you harm. You're family, and even if we've never seen eye to eye, that still counts for something. It has to.”

Derek stopped for a moment. Peter seemed sincere, but Derek had seen him double-cross a dozen people before. Still, none of them had been family, but even if a family member had gotten in Peter's way, would he take them out? _Absolutely_ , thought Derek. 

“No, I won't give you Thomas,” said Derek.

“He's betrayed us,” Peter pleaded, “Can't you see he's undermining everything? The wolves, the packs, they all spoke at the Folkmoot. They chose me.”

“Not all of them, Peter. I shouldn't have to remind you of that, but I guess I do.”

“If they're unhappy, we have mechanisms in place to elect someone new,” said Peter.

“Sometimes I wonder if you listen to yourself when you speak,” Derek replied caustically.

“I do. I can assure you,” said Peter.

“My answer's the same.”

There was a brief, but deep sigh on the other end of the phone, “Alright Nephew. Be safe.” There was a click, and the connection went dead. Derek handed the phone back to Michael.

“I don't suppose you're going to let me walk out of here. Where's your back up? Because we both know you're not going to stop me by myself,” Derek growled

“No one's going to try and stop you, Derek. My instructions were to get you on the phone with Peter. That was all. I'm sorry things didn't work out better, but we'll give you twelve hours to change your mind. If you decide to bring him to us, dead or alive, then we'll forget everything. If not, believe me, we don't wish you harm, but we also can't guarantee your safety, nor that of the ranch, nor anyone who stands between Thomas and us.”

Derek smiled as he turned to walk away, “I think I'll be fine.”

“Please let me know if you change your mind,” Michael pleaded in futility, one last time.

Derek said nothing as he walked off.

“Well, twelve hours anyway,” muttered Michael, who turned and left himself.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So I wrote the ending as one chapter, but chapter 19 became nearly 13,000 words, so I broke it up in two. Here's the first part. Hopefully I'll have time to format the second part for AO3 before I have to go to work, but if not, I'll upload it tonight.

Michael returned to his camp. Some two hundred wolves were there, milling about frenetically, anxious to do something. He was about to sit down and plan his next move, when someone unexpected appeared. “Michael,” came a voice from behind.

“Eric,” Michael replied, unable to contain his surprise, “I thought you were staying in Portland.”  
“I was supposed to,” Eric admitted, “But I felt responsible for what happened,” he said, “Peter gave me the opportunity to handle Thomas, and I failed. I need to make up for it.”

“You shouldn't worry about it,” Michael said.  
“I can't help it. I need to make this right.”  
Michael considered for a moment. “Okay,” he said finally.  
Eric smiled gratefully. “Can I ask you something else?”  
“What is it?”  
“I'd like to lead the assault.”  
Michael stayed silent for a moment, “Peter asked me to do this.”  
“He put you in charge,” Eric confirmed.  
“Exactly. It was a great honor.” said Michael, thinking Eric now saw it his way.  
“And because you're in charge, I'm asking your permission to lead the assault,” continued Eric, “It should be me. Thomas wouldn't even be here, none of us would be, if I'd succeeded and killed him when I was supposed to.”

Michael shuffled his feet in the pine needle-laden earth, as he considered it. “Alright,” he said, finally. We have more than two dozen packs here, over two hundred wolves. I don't think they have anywhere near as many. If you want, lead the charge. I want you to take a hundred, though. Make them seem like a lot more. We don't know what we're facing. We're on their territory. I want a reserve force in case something unexpected happens. They have a defensive advantage, and if it's enough to keep us at bay, those advantages will be exposed to give us the upper-hand in a second assault.

“I understand,” Eric said, “And thank you,” he whispered, bowing his head.  
“Don't forget, though, that these wolves, holed up in this ranch, are not evil, they're simply misguided. We must give them every opportunity to change their ways. We want Thomas, the trouble-maker. The less bloodshed, the better. Go immediately for the leaders, if possible.”

__

The night air felt frigid. A soft breeze wafted, and everything was black, save for the lights of the encampments beyond the balcony railings, against which Derek and Stiles now stood. Stiles was wrapped up in Derek's arms.

“They'll be coming soon, won't they?” Stiles whispered.  
“I would think so,” Derek said. He sighed and rested his chin on Stiles' head, squeezing him just a little tighter.  
“Maybe they'll change their minds,” said Stiles. He felt a small spasm from Derek, who seemed to guffaw at the idea, but otherwise said nothing.

There was a beep on the radio Derek carried clipped to his back pocket. He pulled it off and pressed the button, “What is it, Isaac?” Through the crackling static of the speaker, Isaac's voice came through quietly. He was speaking softly, “I can tell they're here. I see some movement. It's slow, and they're spread thin.”

“How many?”  
“Couldn't say. A lot, though. They're everywhere.”  
Derek paused, before pressing the talk button on the radio again, “Alright, get back here.”  
“I can get a few of them by surprise from here,” Isaac said in a hushed voice.  
“Don't be an idiot. That's suicidal.”  
There was no reply from Isaac, however.  
Meanwhile Christopher Argent was in his favorite spot, the library window, peering down his scope. The beneficiary of a radio himself, he shook his head as he listened.  
“He's right,” he chimed in, “I can see some distant movement. It's too much you're not in a defensive position.”  
“I have my post,” said Isaac.  
“And now you are relieved,” came Derek's reply.  
Derek put his radio away, confident the conversation was finished.

Stiles pointed out towards the woods, “Look,” he said. Derek focused towards the point to which Stiles was indicating. A light, a single light, appeared at the northeast edge of the ranch. Then a second appeared, and then a third, lights illuminating the trees, lights that danced like open flames.

“They brought torches,” Derek muttered, thinking back to their charred family home in Beacon Hills, “That's dark; even for Peter… especially Peter.”

The torches continued to come to life, popping up one after another at the edge of the woods. Derek had already had enough long before the final flame illuminated.

It was an impressive sight. The tree branches at the edge of the property danced under the fires. No doubt not only Stiles and Derek were watching. Everyone was. Then, in the stillness of the night, as if they had been hypnotized by the lights all around them, everyone awoke from the trance at the sound of buzzing and many, many cellphones beeping.

Derek checked his phone. _For every one flame you see, there are ten wolves behind it._

There was a silence. It all seemed dire, hopeless. Then, suddenly, an explosion went off in the distance, causing everyone, friend and foe, to turn towards the loud crack. Someone had set off one of Argent's booby traps.

Stiles did something he didn't think he should, but he was too quickly seized by the impulse. It shocked Derek, as Stiles grabbed his blackberry and sent a text back, so that all could see:

_I think one of them might only have nine now. LOL._

Stiles handed the phone back to Derek, who was still dismayed at his audacity in such a serious situation. His concerned face, though, broke into a smile a moment later. The dark, silent evening was again interrupted by the sound of buzzing and ring tones, this time from Stiles' message. There was a pause, and then a laugh, from nowhere and from everywhere, all at once. It was jovial, hearty, dismissive, downright arrogant, and it came from every corner where a wolf stood on the ranch. And then came a howl; a wolf's howl, long and biting, and wrought with defiant purpose. Stiles watched the black night forest with intensity as the sound gave out. Then he shivered, as another howl pierced the dark of night, joined by dozens and dozens of others, filling the empty sky, invading everything.

The torches went out, one by one, and suddenly things were not so funny anymore. Stiles felt a lump in his throat, suddenly reminded of the seriousness of the situation. He startled, ever so slightly, at the touch of Derek's hand on his shoulder, accomplishing the exact opposite of his boyfriend's intentions.

Watching the woods now with fervent intensity, Derek and Stiles squinted as something dark, a shadow of a figure, emerged from the woods, followed by another, then another, and then dozens more. The dark outlines of the wolves stopped just at the place where the clearing of the ranch met the edge of the forest.

“There are a lot of them, Derek said flatly.  
“How many?” asked Deaton, who emerged from inside and stood next to them now.  
“Hard to say. Who can tell how many linger in the woods just behind,” Derek replied.  
“Or how many don't,” Stiles added.  
“Stiles could be right,” said Deaton, “It may well be a trick.”  
“Even if it is, that's still not nothing down there.”  
“That, I will concede,” said Deaton.

Derek reached for his radio, “Argent, do you see anything?”  
“Oh plenty,” came a reply a second later.  
“How many?”  
A pause hovered over the airwaves.  
“About a hundred, that I can see...give or take...probably give..”  
“Well that's not good,” Derek said, slowly lowering his radio. He paused a moment, before lifting it back up again, “Give them our warmest welcome, at our convenience, Sir.”  
“Roger.”  
The three of them turned at the sound of the kitchen door opening once more. It was Scott.  
“Have you seen Isaac?” he asked.  
“I told him to come back,” Derek said.  
“Hmmm… I haven't seen him,” Scott replied, puzzled.  
“It was only a few minutes ago,” Jared assured him.  
Scott leaned over the railing to peer wolves assembled on the edge of the forest.  
“Well, this looks good.”  
“Mhm,” Derek confirmed.

As they gazed out into the dark, tree-silhouetted night, a little light shone, iridescent in the black night in the woods. Derek's phone rang, and he picked up, “Hello?”  
“It's Eric. Your twelve hours are up. What have you decided?”  
Derek took a moment before responding, “Hold on real quick, I need to ask Thomas. I'll have an answer inside of a minute.”  
“Okay,” said the voice on the other end of the phone.  
Derek muted his Blackberry, and radioed Argent, “You see that cell phone?”  
“Yep.”  
“I don't like it,” said Derek.  
“Neither do I,” said Chris, peering down his scope.  
The sound of a gunshot and Eric's yelp snapped the quiet lull of anticipation that had overtaken the invading wolves. Their attention turned universally towards him to witness his phone and most of his hand blown away by a bullet, followed by Eric cradling a bloody stub.

Argent smirked as he turned the bolt.  
“Sorry about your 'handheld' device, buddy,” he said, chuckling to himself.  
“Your puns, Chris, they are the cheese,” said Priscilla from the other end of the room.  
“Let me,” she said, joining him at the window.  
“If you think you can, okay,” said Argent teasingly, “You were never as good a shot as me.”  
“Ha! We both take shot then,” Priscilla offered. And just as Eric's compatriots absorbed the sight of his hand blown right off, they witnessed in horror as two silver bullets passed right through his skull, felling him. A stream of blood issued from what remained of the back of his head.

There was a stillness, until one of the wolves next to him bent down. Eric's eyes were still open, the way many of the dead's tend to be, regardless if wolf or man. They were eyes wide, wide open, wondering that most elusive of inquiries, 'Why?' And the attending wolf, seeing that those eyes would never get their answer, closed them, and got back up.

He let out a roar, which ricocheted off the house, reverberated in all its windows, and severed the night like a vengeance filled with blood lust. It went far and high and the mountains themselves seemed to scream with their echoes.

The host moved forward, quickly, running towards the green behind the back of the house, running towards the tents, the makeshift encampments, the fires that blazed between bivouacs. Another shot was fired, and then another, another, and another. Wolves plowed the soil with their chins as they met the earth in death, but no one stopped.

They reached the camp and tore through tents, ripping and shredding them apart, before a silence fell over the whole field. No one was to be found in the encampments. Then, one of the wolves, enraged, jerked a blanket out of a tent, and tossed half of it in the fire. He sprinted with it half way up the steps to the balcony and hurtled it onto the roof.

It sat there, burning, and everyone watched, before, as if in a moment of communal realization, they all began to gather objects and throw them, some with great accuracy, others with haphazard carelessness, setting fire against the ranch house in any place possible. Those who still had their torches re-lit them in the fires and laid them against the house. They all yelled, “Come out! Why don't you come out?!?” taunting the people inside to meet them face-to-face. No one came to meet them, though.

Stiles was inside, peering out one of the bedroom windows. The lights were off and he shared a place next to Deaton and Maria looking through the cracked blinds at the assailants below, as they tossed flaming object after flaming object towards the house.

“They're going to smoke us out at best, or burn us alive at worse,” muttered Deaton.  
“Time to make it rain!” yelled Maria, who clapped her hands together and gyrated her hips in a teasing, yet still disgusting display.  
“You remember how you moved snow off the mountain, and you remember telling me about the micro burst you made with Scott?” Maria asked Stiles.  
“Yeah,” Stiles replied.  
“Well,” said Maria, opening up one of her satchels, “It's very similar to that, but we are going to combine the wind ritual with another, for water. You will do the wind, I'll ask for rain, and Deaton, can you get a bowl? Bring a bowl with water in it.” Deaton nodded.  
“That's really pretty,” Stiles said, admiring the bright blue feather Maria had produced from her satchel.  
“Mountain bluebird,' Maria said, “They live in these parts, but this one, this one came from my town in Mexico. I have had it… a very long time.” Maria regarded it with fondness, but Stiles was ignorant as to what memories the delicate feather resuscitated in her.

“Hey Deaton!” yelled Maria, “Let's hurry before we're all _barbacoa!_ ”

“Right, here's our water bowl,” A returning Deaton announced, gingerly placing it on the ground. Maria placed something in Deaton's cupped hands, but Stiles couldn't see what it was. Deaton looked over at him, perhaps misinterpreting the quizzical look he explained, “I've only done this one time before, so, bare with me.”

“Okay...” Stiles replied, more confused than ever.  
Maria snapped her finger, “Focus, make me wind!”

Stiles, suddenly remembering his task, rummaged through his own things to find his feather and dust, which he hastily poured into his hand, his feather now at the ready. He took a breath to steady himself and to remember the words he'd whisper. Satisfied he was ready, he nodded to Maria, and they both began their quiet supplications.

As the dust from Stiles' hand wafted away from the fanning feather, it floated down into the small pool of water contained in the bowl below. A state of myopia set in for Stiles, concentrating as intensely as he could on the words he had to pronounce, trying to give them power as one might in the most desperate of prayers, hoping against hope to be answered. He didn't want to disappoint Deaton or Maria, whose own dust was floating down into the same bowl, combining with his, gently turning in the vessel.  
_Plop!_

Stile's concentration broke at the sound and he looked down at the bowl which now had a small river stone in it. Another one splashed down a second later, as Deaton tossed it into the water. Then a third touched down. The tile floor around the bowl had little dots of water, and Stiles could feel the coolness of some which had landed on his feet.

“What now?” asked Stiles.  
“Now, hopefully,” Maria craned her head at the window to check the sky, “Yes, here come the clouds. May they piss on us like drunk sailors,” she said, as she crossed herself.  
“I bet you've never heard those words strung together before,” Deaton said.  
“No,” laughed Stiles.  
“I have,” whispered Deaton, as he looked at Maria with traumatized eyes.  
“Ha ha!” Maria cackled, “Fleet Week! San Diego!”  
Deaton looked over at Stiles, “It wasn't even fleet week.”  
Stiles wondered what story he would elicit if he dared ask, but decided it would be better not to.

“Hey,” he said, pointing his finger at the window, “Raindrops.” A couple splashes had landed on the glass, and then they were followed by a few more. Stiles smiled at the sight, and commented, “You know, I thought maybe we'd have to do a rain dance or something.”  
“Rain dances aren't for bringing rain. Only white people think that nonsense. Rain dances are for welcoming the rain,” said Maria.

“Oh really?” asked Stiles as he turned from the window. He stopped at the sight of Deaton and Maria ballroom dancing about the room. Maria and Deaton both laughed at the beating of heavy raindrops against the glass and roof now.

__

Outside, the wolves milled about, enraged. The fires they'd started smoldered and died. They were soon drenched in a downpour of torrential proportions. The rain came down so hard now that it was difficult to see much more than a few feet.

Then, on Derek's command, came the wolves. They leaped forward, out of the forest on the western edge of the grounds, bounding towards their enemy. They poured out of the house from the basement level. They howled a death-rattle as they descended from the main floor.

Totally taken aback, Michael's forces were overwhelmed. Unfamiliar with the grounds, practically blinded by the downpour, they were no match for the ravenous, emboldened beasts that rushed towards them. Whatever fear the defending wolves might have had awaiting the imminent attack was washed away with the rain. Blood and froth watered the grass alongside raindrops, as the invading wolves were decimated by the ambush. Many broke and ran, and those who weren't such cowards met bravery's reward.

Derek came out and surveyed the scene. He seemed unaffected as he inspected the carnage before him, nudging a few bodies with his foot to confirm they were dead. One was not, admitting so at the behest of a kick. Derek leaned down next to the wheezing wolf, who was in so much pain that his eyes remained tightly closed, surrounded by crows' feet he'd not yet lived long enough to see set.

“Don't think you've won,” he spat. “We've got more, just waiting to...'” he stopped as he coughed, first just slightly, before hacking violently. Derek watched as a dribble of blood issued out of his mouth and cascaded down the young wolf's jaw.

He stood up, looking down at the wolf who was still writhing, then furtively glancing around, he raised his foot, and stomped on his neck. The wolf stopped retching and was quiet, and Derek looked around once again, thankful that Stiles hadn't seen what he'd done.

__

In Portland

“I don't know why you're doing this!” cried Malia to an unusually consoling Peter. His hands were out-thrust, begging her to understand. “They're trying to tear everything apart!” he explained, trying not to yell, “Thomas is turning them all against us! Our way of life, our culture, everything we've known is on the cusp of destruction!”

Malia shook her head, “No,” she said, tears streaming down her face, “This has nothing to do with that.” She wiped some snot from her nose as she sniffled, “I'm leaving,” she said.

“What? What do you mean you're leaving? Why?” Peter asked in shock.

“Because you're a fucking monster!” she screamed. “They're all over there, getting torn apart…. For what?!?”  
“Darling….”  
“Don't darling me. You sicken me.”  
“I'm only trying to set things right. I really don't wish harm on anyo….”  
The office door slammed shut, ending Peter's supplications prematurely. Malia was gone. He didn't know where, but he knew she was gone.

“Where are you going?” asked Mark as he stumbled on Malia stuffing a suitcase with clothes.  
“Anywhere but here,” she said, practically punching the items into the bag.  
“Do you know?” he asked.  
“Know what?”  
“For certain? I mean. Do you know, whether he really tried to kill his own nephew and Scott?”  
“I know my father, Mark. I think he'd kill me if it were quick and convenient for one of his plans,” Malia said bitterly.  
“I'm sure you don't mean that,” Mark replied.  
“Ha!” Malia scoffed, “Do yourself a favor and stop living in a fantasy world.” Malia hoisted the suitcase off her bed and left without so much as a goodbye.

Peter was sunk into his office chair, head cradled in his palms, when a knock at the door resuscitated his attention from the bowels of despair. “Yes?” he asked.

“It's Mark, came a voice.”  
“Come in,” Peter said wearily.

“I don't know what you want me to do,” said Mark, “Thomas' people keep pumping out their stories, their lies, and we don't know how to shut it down.”

“Do the best you can," said Peter. “All we can do is tell the truth.”

“And what about Derek and Scott?” Mark asked.  
“What are you talking about?” asked Peter, now agitated.  
“The rumor you tried to have them killed after the last Folkmoot,” said Mark.  
Peter sighed, “Don't be ridiculous.”

Mark left the room without another word, deciding to consult Sharon. He walked into their shared room to find her at her desk. “Hello, brother,” Sharon said without looking up from her project. “Sister,” said Mark as he gently closed the bedroom door.

“I heard Malia leave. What was that about?” Sharon asked as she closed her laptop.  
“She was upset by some of the stuff she was reading online. She's convinced Peter tried to kill Scott and Derek and believes half the other stuff Thomas's been posting too.”  
“Yeah, I know,” said Sharon, “That's the trouble isn't it? A lie gets half way around the world before the truth has a chance to get its pants on, as someone once said.”  
”You don't think he really did it, do you?”  
“I don't know,” Sharon shrugged, “It makes sense from a political standpoint.”  
Mark shook his head, “You're so cynical, and the worst thing is, I don't even think it bothers you. Scott means something to me. He's gotten wrapped up in this anti-Peter bullshit Thomas has been throwing out, but I know once he sees the truth, he'll come around. He'll always come around.”

“I think you need to take a long, hard look in the mirror, and think about how ridiculous you're acting right now,” Sharon said coldly, “And I think we need to re-visit our arrangement with Peter.”  
“What are you talking about, _our arrangement_?” Mark asked, confused.  
Sharon looked up from her phone, “Well the latest news out of Arizona is that things aren't going so well.”  
Mark sighed, “I suppose there hasn't been any good news in a while. Well, great, one more thing to add to that list.”

“Peter's not in a good place right now, Mark. People are seriously starting to question whether he's fit for his job. They see the stories about him collaborating with PsyNex and the military. They see a wolf loyal to him going rogue and bombing a PsyNex plant without permission after he was supposedly being sent to murder another pack leader. Neither of which,” Sharon scoffed, “looks very good by itself, much less together. Now, it looks like he can't even put down a rebellion by his own nephew.”

Mark looked down at the floor, “You're saying you want to abandon Peter?” he asked glumly, thinking about how heartbroken he'd be to lose even more people close to him.  
“I'm saying we do what's right,” said Sharon, “Peter isn't right anymore. Stop feeling so sentimental. He hasn't given you as much consideration. I mean, he tried to kill Scott, and he knew how much you liked him.  
“That was a lie. He didn't try to do that,” Mark protested.  
“He never told you about Isaac, did he?” Sharon asked abruptly.  
“Yeah, everyone knew about Isaac and his crazy bombs,” said Mark defensively.  
“No, about the fact Scott and he were… are a couple, he never bothered to mention that to you, did he?” asked Sharon.

Mark laughed, “What? No. But...” he sputtered, “No, because Scott never said anything about them being together. I mean, he mentioned him a few times, but they were friends, that was all. He would have said something. We shared everything.”  
“Well, at least one of you did,” Sharon replied, as Thomas sat there, unable to say anything more while he processed what was said, trying to sort fact from fiction. He didn't know what was true, and it bothered him, because it made him wonder even more if he ever had in the first place. Sharon seemed to understand her brother's dilemma without a word spoken.

“You know on balance Peter probably tried to kill him,” she said. “And maybe Scott and Isaac aren't together anymore. Maybe they really broke up after they were separated for so long, and especially after you two...connected.”  
“I haven't heard from him since he left,” said Mark bitterly.  
“Probably because he's afraid of Peter...and guess who you work for,” Sharon said, “Which brings us back to the question at hand. What are we going to do?”  
“You think Peter's unsalvageable?”  
“Yes, I do.”  
“Then where do we go from here?” Mark asked.  
“I think you know,” replied Sharon.  
“Then we can go see Scott?”  
“Yes, Mark, then we can go see Scott.”

__

Michael emerged from the woods, and stomped down the road. He flexed his hand, making fist after fist, releasing each one, trying to shake out the residual pain he felt from having punched a tree at the news of their failure to take the ranch.

“That's why we have back-ups,” he explained to his lieutenant.  
“Why didn't we just overwhelm them. Why did we keep half of our people back?”  
“Because we didn't get as many as I'd hoped for, and if anything, I wanted to learn how they operated, how they moved. I'm not sure a hundred more wolves would have done the job. Maybe it would have, but at what cost? Still, it's not like they didn't suffer any losses themselves.”  
“Not as many as we did, by the looks of things.”  
“No, but I kept the best fighters back. Send in the foot soldiers, then the cavalry,” said Michael.  
“And when are you going to send in the cavalry?” asked his lieutenant.  
“Soon.”

They both looked over as another group of wolves arrived at their encampment. “That's another thing,” said Michael, “We have more coming. They don't. They control that house, but everything around them is ours.”

__

Meanwhile, not far away at the ranch,

“Shit!” Derek yelled in the basement of the house. There were people milling about everywhere, trying to give attention to all the wolves who'd been hurt.

“They used wolfsbane,” said Thomas, throwing a severed hand onto the ground. “They put it under their claws. Kind of clever, but a little dirty, if you ask me.”  
Derek hadn't asked, nor did he care. So what if they had used it? They'd just use it again. Nothing was going to stop them.  
“I'm not sure we can stand another attack,” he said, trying to remain as hushed as possible.  
Thomas didn't skip a beat, nor did he seem at all concerned, “Of course we can. We can, because we must.”  
“There are at least as many more of them out there. They could come at any moment. We won't be prepared, not for another attack like that.”  
“Surely you and your friends have a few tricks up your sleeves,” Thomas said presumptuously.  
“Tricks, no. Planning, some. But even the best laid plans are no certain bet.”  
Thomas chuckled, “Well, perhaps your magician boyfriend, or your wizard, or maybe your sorceress cook-wench might know a trick or two.”

Derek's brow furrowed, before catching a glimpse of Stiles who'd walked into the room. Seeing him after what Thomas had just said caused him a pained expression. Stiles didn't even seemed to notice, though. He was too busy bringing down bottles of water for Maria and Deaton, who were preoccupied with the wounded.

Derek turned back to Thomas, who still wore a shadow of a smirk, “You should take better care of your teeth,” said Derek. Thomas' grin slowly faded, his face turning to confusion.  
Derek enlightened him, “Teeth are important for saying things…. You know, making comments. But you should be careful about those comments, because I know how you talk, and if you ever say something like that again, you'd better hope you have a very good dentist or know ASL.”

“I didn't mean...” started Thomas.  
“Oh no,” said Derek, “Let me be clear. I was talking about Maria and Deaton. As far as Stiles goes, if you talk about him like that again, I'll personally tear your tongue out of your throat and make you watch while I feed it into my garbage disposal.”  
Thomas stuttered, “I didn't mean...I'm sorry,”  
“You should be. I don't know where you're from, but around here you don't come as a guest and insult someone in their own home. We don't have the theater, or an opera, or an art museum, but what we do have are some goddamned manners.”  
Thomas' eyes darted over to an approaching Stiles, who, quite typically so, still seemed oblivious to the conversation, a fact that was not lost on Derek.  
“What are you guys talking about?”  
“Just discussing what happens if they come back,” said Derek, putting one arm around him and nervously grasping his own neck with the other.  
“You think they will?” asked Stiles.  
“I hope not,” Thomas said without hesitation.

__  
Back in Portland

Peter sat slumped over dejectedly in a chair in the corner of Malia's now-abandoned room. He stared at a teddy bear on the floor. He'd given it to her years ago when she was still small. It was lying there, face-down, its arms and legs splayed out, as if tossed to the ground with no attachment. It could have been perched on a shelf, or laid, nestled between the two pillows on the bed, but it was on the floor, tossed away.

Mark walked in with a tray, “Oh, there you are,” he said cheerfully, “I was wondering where you were.”

Peter said nothing, his gaze unbroken from the stuffed toy on the floor.

“Now then, I brought you some tea,” said Mark, putting the tray in Peter's lap. Peter remained still, and Mark had to move his hands up from the seat to grasp the tray. “There we are,” he said finally curling Peters' fingers around the tray's handles.

Peter looked down at the shortbread biscuits arranged on a little plate. “I'm not hungry,” he said.  
“That's alright,” said Mark, picking up the teapot, covered in a little cozy, “But drink your tea,” he said, as he poured some out into a cup.

“I suppose it'll do some good,” said Peter, who moved about underneath a blanket he'd draped over himself. He beckoned for the cup.

“I'll just put the tray on the side table in case you recover your appetite,” said Mark.  
“Thank you,” said Peter.  
Mark looked at him for a moment as he continued to stare vacantly at the stuffed bear on the floor.  
“Malia,” he said. “She thinks I'm a monster… maybe I am.”  
“Maybe she'll come around. You know how children can be,” Mark offered.  
Peter snorted, “Hm… maybe so.”  
There was a pause as Peter continued to ponder, then he refilled his cup and took a biscuit.  
“It's just incredible how quickly things changed from good to bad,” he said, reflecting on all the events that had led him to his current predicament.  
“Things can go from bad to good just as quickly,” Mark reassured him.  
“I hope you're right,” Peter said dejectedly, placing the cup back on the tray, heavily, as if now it were a burden.  
“Go, I'm sure you have things to do,” said Peter wearily.  
“As you wish,” said Mark, who took his leave.

Mark rejoined Sharon who had nearly packed her things. They said nothing to one another until the last of their effects were packed away.

“Let's go say goodbye to Peter,” Sharon said. The two of them went back to find Peter still and unresponsive, though his eyes were wide open. “I don't know if he's….” started Mark.  
“No,” said Sharon, feeling his chest rising slowly, “He's just paralyzed. He didn't drink enough of the monkhood tea.”  
“I'll take care of it,” said Mark in a low voice, “Go put our bags in the car.”

Sharon nodded, and Mark left the room with her, only to return a moment later from the kitchen. Peter's eyes barely managed to move a little as he watched him come back. His face was still completely still, his body unable to move. Mark took the cozy and the top off the tea pot.

“It looks like you didn't finish your tea,” he said. He dipped a turkey baster into the pot, sucking up the drink inside. He could hear Peter breathing next to him. Mark grasped Peter's jaw, and tilted his head up so he was looking at the ceiling. He opened his mouth and plunged the baster down Peter's throat, and gently started to squeeze.

“Drink up now, Peter,” he said over the sound of gargling, some of the liquid was surely being aspirated. He emptied the baster though, and slowly slid it out.

“I believed in you once, Peter. I thought you were going to get things done, make things right, even if we had to make friends with enemies once and a while. I get it. The world isn't all good guys and bad guys. But you took things too far. I loved Scott, and you knew it, and you still tried to kill him, even though we both knew he wasn't standing in your way.”

Mark glanced over into the teapot, “Oh look,” he said, “There's still some left. I did make a full pot for you, Peter,” he tutted, dipping the baster back into the pot for the rest of the tea. “Open up,” he said, as he grasped Peter's now slumped head. He deposited the last of the tea down Peter's throat, before lightly patting him on the cheek, “There we go Peter, you got it all down. That wasn't so bad, was it?”

Mark leaned Peter over so he rested against the side of the arm chair, before leaving the room and the house. Peter's eyes once again rested on Malia's stuffed bear. It was the last thing those eyes saw, as they slowly closed shut.

Mark and Sharon drove away, south east towards Arizona. Neither of them really spoke to one another for the first few minutes, but it wasn't long before Sharon got out her cellphone and dialed Michael's number. He picked up just barely before the voice mail. “What is it, Sharon, I'm about to launch a second attack,” came an irritated voice.

“Don't do it,” she said, “Hold off, we're on our way. Don't do anything 'til we get there.”  
There was a sigh from the other end, then a hesitant, “Okay.”  
“Good, we'll see you soon,” she said, “Well, soonish, it's a drive. Rest up in the mean time.”


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter- please be kind. I do want feedback, because I am going to revise it and make improvements, but oh, please god, just be gentle. I feel like I just ran a marathon with this. Thanks to everyone who read this and stayed patient. Thanks especially to anyone who left comments and insight. It was very helpful. :)

“It's still quiet out there,” Thomas said to Derek in their hushed conversation. Thomas was looking out the window into the woods. “Wonder what they're up to,” he muttered.  
“They're just trying to scare us,” said Derek stoically, sitting behind his desk, fixated on the pen he was spinning around.  
“Maybe we hurt them too badly, maybe they're regrouping, getting reinforcements,” Thomas wondered.  
“Who can say?” said Derek.  
“Your friends, they're familiar with the place. You must have some idea where Michael and his people are. If you told them where, they could do some reconnaissance for us.”  
“So could members of your pack,” said Derek. “They know how to follow directions, don't they?”  
“What's the matter?” asked Thomas, suddenly concerned. “Have I overstayed my welcome?”

Derek looked at him a moment, “No, Thomas. Of course not.”

Thomas breathed a sigh, as if relieved, “Good, I'm glad to hear you say that. I can't tell you again how much I appreciate this… your hospitality, your help, everything.”  
“It's the least I could do after you helped us.”  
“If we win this… when we win this, we can regroup, make this our base of operations until we stamp out the rest of them. I need you at my side,” Thomas said suddenly.  
“No, said Derek. When we win this, then, you will have overstayed your welcome.”

Thomas frowned, visibly perturbed, “I'm sorry to hear that, but a gentleman has to know when to leave. Thank you for making it clear to me when that time will be. Perhaps we can figure something out in San Francisco once this is all done?”

Derek sighed, “I'm tired, Thomas. I can't go back. This is where I belong now.”  
“What do you mean, tired?” asked Thomas.

“Tired of the power games. That was never something that interested me. My uncle and I may have been cut from the same family cloth, but we were cut from very different parts. He isn't me, and I certainly am not him. I don't care about power, because I already have it. It's here, in this house, in this land, and it's enough for me.”

“I understand,” said Thomas, who peered out the window again to hide his disappointed face. He turned quickly around, though, at the sound of Derek, who, trying to make things more chipper, suddenly changed the tone of his voice, “You're right though,” he said a bit theatrically, “They've been sitting on their asses a little too long, if you ask me.”

“What do you propose?” asked Thomas, now intrigued.

“Watch this,” said Derek, as he picked up his phone and tapped away, before putting it down firmly on the desk with a half-smile. Then Derek sprung from his chair and picked up a pool cue from the corner and began racking the balls. “Do you want to play?” he asked, “Pool's been a big part of my family for a long time. It teaches you a lot about precision, when to hit soft or hard, planning the set-up for the next shot before you even take the one you're working out...”

“Bit like chess, it seems,” said Thomas still distractedly gazing out the window.  
“Remarkably similar,” Derek replied.  
“What am I supposed to be waiting for?” asked Thomas.  
“Give it a few,” Derek assured him, “Come and play.”

The two played a number of games over the course of thirty or forty minutes, before Thomas became disquieted, “What am I waiting for again, exactly?” he asked, as if Derek had forgotten. He leaned his stick against the table.

“Patience, Thomas,” said Derek. “Don't be upset you've lost a few games. There will be more, always.”  
“I'm not upset about that,” Thomas said, indignantly, “I'm just nervous, that's all. I don't know whats going on.”  
“Do you think you really know what's going on half the time you think you do?”  
“I'd like to believe that,” said Thomas, “I plan for unknowns, I make space for them.”  
“And for the unknowns that you don't know are unknown? I'd like to hear how you plan for those.”

Thomas was flustered, “I do my research, I keep informed, I try to prepare my plans as assiduously as possible. If you do that correctly, you have success. It's as simple as that.”  
“Well, I wish you the best with that...” said Derek, before both of their heads jerked towards the window.  
“Ha! Here we go,” said Derek guiding Thomas over.  
“I can't see anything, but it sounded like a gun shot,” said Thomas.  
“Hmmm…” Derek mused, “An 8mm rifle. That's an old German infantry gun, World War I,” he added.  
“How can you tell?” Thomas scoffed.

“They all make their own sounds,” said Derek. “Would you believe me if I told you that I know exactly who shot that? There are only a couple of them I've ever seen around here. You see, while you traded Pokemon cards in California as kids, we'd check each others' guns out, swap them, try them… wholesome fun, and all that.”

That's terrifying,” said Thomas.  
“Really? Mr Big Bad Werewolf?”  
“I mean that you think I played Pokemon,” said Thomas, “D&D forever,” he whispered softly.  
Another gunshot rang out a moment later, and Thomas thought he could tell a difference in the sound, but wasn't quite sure he wasn't just fooling himself.  
“Oh, that'll be Randy then,” said Derek with confidence. Of course, there was no way for Thomas to know whether he was actually right. He decided to believe him though.

“Well, I don't know what you think a rifle's going to do to that lot. Sting them for a minute?”  
“No,” said Derek, “They're using silver.”

Thomas started laughing, “You mean to tell me, that you have a bunch of hick neighbors who you asked to come out and start shooting at people they don't know, and on top of that, with bullets made of silver? And moreover, they just happened to have silver bullets lying around? Like that's somehow normal? Get off it, Derek.”

“No, that's exactly right,” said Derek.  
Thomas chuckled, wiping a tear from his eye, “And now you're going to tell me they know they're shooting at werewolves?”

“Yes,” said Derek, as he polished his pool stick with chaulk, “Why else would they be using silver bullets? I mean, precious metal prices have dropped a lot recently Thomas, but we're not billionaires for heaven's sake. Are we playing through, by the way?”

Another gun shot popped in the distance, “Ah, that would be Maury,” said Derek, “Or maybe Sherryl? I think they both have that one.”

Thomas picked up his stick, “We'll play through.”

Derek leaned over the table to focus in on the cue ball, “This area was inhabited by werewolves much less friendly than those of my family. You could say they lacked… impulse control. When we came here, we made a deal with the community to drive out the packs that roamed the forests and came at night and terrorized the people and the livestock. That's what we did, and we've been here ever since.”

“So they know you're werewolves too?” asked Thomas still incredulous.

“Oh, most definitely,” said Derek, “They're not stupid. We've been fine for decades, because we mind our own business, we're polite, and we keep the area safe. At first, maybe it was a bit unwelcoming. They may have seen us as the lesser evil to get rid of the greater, but we've grown on them, and they've grown on us. We have each others' backs like no one else can, and that's what you're hearing out there right now. We can talk about each other, talk crap, swap rumors, make assumptions, but that's because we all live here. There's no one here but us. It doesn't matter if those guys they're taking shots at were werewolves, cops, or military. If you're not from here, you don't fuck with someone who is. No one's going to put up with that.”

“That brings a whole new dynamic to Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood,” said Thomas.  
Derek laughed, “Underneath that cardigan, Mr. Rogers was straight-up thug.”  
More shots rang out in the distance.

__

“Where are you?!?” Michael yelled into the phone. He was hunched over, pacing about furiously.  
“We're almost there, calm down,” Sharon said, with one hand on the steering wheel.  
“We're getting potshots from all over the forest, and a couple of them are actually hitting us.”  
“We'll be there as soon as we can.”

Michael hung up, just in time to deal with one of the pack leaders, who was himself in a state, “What are we doing here? Are you seriously just letting us get shot at?”

Michael crossed his arms and huffed, “No, no you're right. Send some wolves into the woods. Find them. It sounds like it's only a few of them anyhow.”

The other wolf nodded, and soon two groups of four wolves each were headed out from both sides of the camp, trying to flank the snipers who kept up their volley of bullets, sporadic, and almost tauntingly slowly delivered. It became silent a moment later, and Michael breathed a sign of relief.

Michael was sitting in a large tent when Mark and Sharon's car pulled in. He emerged at the sound of the tires coming to a halt.  
“Finally,” he said, as the two got out. Michael leered at the car's interior, “Where's Peter?”  
“He didn't come,” said Sharon.  
“But I thought when you said you guys were coming, you meant...”  
“We need to talk,” she said as she pushed past him into the tent.

“What's this about?” Michael asked, now very concerned.  
“Peter died. He isn't coming,” said Sharon.  
“Wait, what?” Michael asked, dumbfounded.  
“He killed himself,” said Mark.  
“I can't believe this,” said Michael, shaking his head, “No, Peter wouldn't do that,” He whipped out his phone and frantically started typing a message.

“He did, though,” said Sharon, “After all the setbacks with PsyNex, losing so much support from the packs, being defamed across the whole community… Then on top of it, hearing the news that this whole thing wasn't going well, and then Malia leaving...”  
“What do you mean, Malia leaving?” asked Michael  
“She became furious when she found out he tried to have Scott and Derek killed,” said Mark.  
“He didn't,” Michael said defensively.  
“It doesn't matter,” Sharon said, “That's why she left and I honestly think that was just enough to break his heart.”  
“He's gone,” Mark said, slapping Michael's shoulder in sympathy. Michael sank to the ground, staring off somewhere else in disbelief. Mark and Sharon sat down with him, giving him a moment to process everything they'd just said.

“Do you think...” Michael muttered,  
“It's not your fault,” said Sharon, “So what if this hasn't gone so well? You're not responsible. There were a lot of things getting him down.”

Michael heaved, “Right, you're right. Let's think. We came here to do what he asked. It's time we did it, and it's time we did it right, if for nothing else but him. We'll throw everything at them and end this once and for all. Some of the wolves are ready to leave. We've been sitting here doing nothing.”

“We have everything nearly in place,” said Sharon, “As soon as we found him, I sent out messages to all the packs, telling them he was assassinated by Thomas and his ilk, and that the Folkmoot demands they come and stand with us to take revenge. This is an outrage, a total disrespect of tradition, and more than anything it's cowardly. It would be a good idea to reiterate that to the wolves here. They've already shown their loyalty by showing up. They should stay once they find out what's happened.”

“I'll tell them at once,” said Michael, now emboldened.  
“We only need a few hours, and we should have all the help we need. More will come once they've heard. It' s just a matter of them getting here. You're the leader now, Michael, take command,” Mark urged.

Michael walked out of the tent, though not before wiping the corner of his eye. He shifted, suddenly, roaring more ferociously than anyone might have expected for a wolf his size. A few of the wolves who were not so subtly packing things away, stopped and turned.

“It's been made known to me that Thomas and the traitors, instead of fighting a fair fight, have not only holed themselves up in their house, but they've also sent assassins to kill Peter.”

There was a grumble from the crowd, now gathering around. “Peter is gone. They succeeded. They killed him like cowards, not like wolves, not like warriors, but like conniving weaklings who only attack when your back is turned. Is that what a wolf is?” Another murmur issued from the assembled wolves.

“No, it isn't. They've desecrated all we stand for. Rare is the lone wolf, and why? Because he has no pack. Pack is everything, and the Folkmoot was about our individual packs belonging to something bigger, something stronger. Now they have killed the man, the wolf we, and the rest of the packs made our leader. Will we accept that?”  
“No!” came cries from the crowd.

“No, no, we won't. Nor will many other packs who are now just learning of this travesty. Some of us still respect tradition and the old ways. Will we let those slip away without a fight? Will we let ourselves be dishonored and humiliated?”  
“No!” came a now resounding cry.

“Steel yourselves, then, and have a little more patience. When our brothers come, we will go back there, and flood that house with their treacherous blood.”

The message seemed to work. No one appeared to be packing up anymore. Michael went back into his tent, opening and closing the flap with a dramatic flourish.  
“This one won't be easy, will it?” asked Mark.  
“Maybe, maybe not,” said Michael, “They may have one or two stunts yet to pull, but we did do some damage. We didn't use half of our forces, so they're ready, and the ones who were injured but made it out are still here, healed, and rested. Maybe it was a good thing we waited. This will be, despite the last failure, an even larger assault, even if no one else comes to help. Imagine what they will be thinking, when the next time they see us, there will be even more, and they'll only be fewer.”  
“Now you are talking like a leader,” said Sharon.

One of the wolves who had departed to sic the snipers in the woods came into the tent.  
Michael smiled, “I haven't heard any shots in quite a while now. Good hunting?”  
“No,” said the wolf, “They were gone before we could get there. They must have left when they saw us leave camp.”  
Michael's brow furrowed, “Didn't you track them?”  
“There wasn't anything to track. I'd guess they used hunter's spray to mask their scent,” he said.

Michael shook his head, “I'll be damned what you can't find these days. Maybe they got the message, but take some wolves and start patrols, just in case.”  
“Before we do anything, can I make a suggestion?” asked Mark, “What if we were to ask them one more time to give up Thomas?”  
“As your phrasing suggests, 'one more time' means we've already tried that,” said Michael.  
“I know, but maybe they've changed their minds.”  
“What good would it do?” asked Michael dismissively.  
“We have the time before more packs arrive,” pleaded Mark.  
“I think I know what this is about,” Sharon said tersely from the corner.

Mark looked at her contemptuously, “I know Scott's there, and I don't want to see him hurt. I'd do anything to make sure that didn't happen.”  
Michael considered it a moment, “Maybe you should send him a message, and see if you and he can meet. Propose the compromise. I suppose it can't hurt, and we do have them time. Then at least we can't say we didn't try...again,” said Michael, dryly.  
Mark's hands were already moving across the buttons of his phone, “Thank you,” he said, sounding relieved. He left, and Sharon rolled her eyes, “You know it won't do any good.”  
“We're not moving for a few hours anyway. Just indulge him,” said Michael.

__

Scott walked into the library and found Derek. “I got a text from Mark, the one from the Peter's house,” he explained, “He wants to meet and discuss a resolution.”

“There's no way in hell I'm doing that again,” said Derek, looking down at some maps spread over his desk.  
“He wanted to meet with me,” Scott said.  
Derek looked up, surprised. “Not to be rude, Scott, but why do you think they'd ask for you?”  
Scott shifted nervously, “I don't know, to be honest. Maybe they think they'll get somewhere if they talk to me and I give you their point of view in a different way. It's Mark who asked me,” he reiterated, holding up his phone to show the text, “He said he was the one who was coming.”  
“It doesn't matter who it is. Our answer is the same. They can leave.”  
“Then I might as well tell them again in person, since they don't seem to have gotten the message,” said Scott.  
“You realize it's incredibly dangerous to do that, don't you?”  
“I'll meet him by the front gate. He said he'd come alone.”

Derek sighed, “Fine. And only because I haven't seen Isaac. I told him to come back from his tree, and I don't think he has. I'm going to have to have a talking with him,” Derek muttered. “I'm getting sick of people disrespecting me, much less a member of my own pack. Bring him back while you're there.”

Scott nodded and left at once, texting Mark to let him know they'd meet at the gate.

When Scott got there, no Mark was to be found. He shoved his hands in his coat and paced about, impatient to do something he desperately didn't want to.  
“I know you're there,” he whispered as he paced, smelling a familiar scent in the air around him, “Just come on out so we can get this over with.”

A couple of minutes later Mark appeared out of the woods, not down the long drive like some defiant hero, but surreptitiously, almost cat-like and comical, in his caution. He quickly came into full view however, after his head, which darted out from behind a tree trunk, caught sight of Scott, and slowly revealed itself to have a full body attached to it, as he crept out into the open.

“Hey,” he said, awkwardly shoving his hands into his pockets and hunching his shoulders.  
Scott opened his hands up, before clasping them together, “Hey,” he said, with a tone of sweetness that might have been pity, contrition, regret, or perhaps all three, bound to one another.

“So… I haven't heard from you in a while,” Mark said.  
Scott glanced at the ground, “Yeah, I'm sorry about that. You know how things have been.”  
“I understand,” said Mark, “Look, let's just get to it. Michael didn't even send half of what he had the first time, and that was what he had before. There are more people coming in. If you thought it was easy before…”

“I'm not scared,” said Scott.

“You should be, and,” Mark took a deep breath, “I'm scared for you. Listen, the only reason I'm here is because you mean something to me. They weren't going to give you another ultimatum, they were just going to bust down the door and take everything. That's how strong they are now. But I asked, because I don't want you to get hurt. I knew you were here, and I don't want anything bad to happen to you. Don't you understand that?”

“We're on two separate sides,” said Scott.  
“I don't believe that. I think we're on the same side. We want what's best for the packs, but we don't see eye-to-eye on how to get there,” Mark said, “And that doesn't change the fact that I love you. No matter what you believe, and no matter what side you take, I know you're a wonderful person.”  
Scott blushed, “That's very flattering, Mark, but what we had was… temporary,”  
“It doesn't have to be,” Mark interjected.

Scott shuffled his feet, “I'm kind of with someone, and he's sort of the love of my life. I can't be with you Mark. You're handsome, smart, and you'll make some guy really happy one day, but I already met the one for me and that's exactly what he is… the one for me.”

Scott looked up in the tree, and Mark's eyes followed suit. Isaac, shotgun cradled across his lap, looked down at Scott, and Mark understood then.  
“So, will you give up Thomas?” asked Mark now with a hopeless tone, “That could make this all go away.”  
“No,” Scott said. “Thomas stays. Do yourselves a favor and go home.”  
“I can't,” Mark said, shaking his head, “But I want you to be safe.”  
“I want you to be safe too,” said Scott.  
“I love you,” Mark said, his voice quivering.  
“Mark, I love you too...just not like that,” Scott said, “You can always come with us, if you want.”

Mark looked up at the branch where Isaac sat, “No. That's okay, but thank you. I think I'll be off now.” And he turned and trudged down the road before disappearing at the turn.  
“That went well,” said Isaac.  
Scott didn't respond at first. Finally, he looked up again, “Get down from there. Derek wants you to come back.”  
“But I like it here. I'm used to this spot, I've got a tactical advantage,” Isaac said.  
“Don't be an idiot,” said Scott, “You're a sitting duck. You need to be with the rest of us, not holed up on your own like some creepy tree hermit.”

Isaac jumped down, “Fine,” he said sourly. Scott put his arm around his shoulder and they walked back to the house, “I'm not a creepy tree hermit,” Isaac mumbled.  
“Just a little bit,” said Scott who rubbed his hair teasingly.  
“Thanks for what you said back there,” Isaac said quietly.  
“You don't need to thank me. I was just saying how I feel,” Scott leaned in and kissed him. “You know you're my only one,” he whispered, as Isaac blushed.

“Am I interrupting something?” Derek asked, leaning out from one of the open library windows. The two turned and looked up, embarrassed by the intrusion into their moment of intimacy.  
“No,” said Scott.  
“Good,” Derek said, “You two should probably come inside. It's really not safe to be out there anymore.”

They came in, the door closing behind them sounding eerily final after Derek's warning. Then, hours passed and slowly crept into the twilight, and everything remained still as it had been.  
Stiles stayed with Derek in the library, though the two did not talk. Argent and Priscilla, with night scopes mounted on their rifles, watched calmly out the windows overlooking the driveway and the backyard.

Derek squeezed Stiles' hand and gave him a half-hearted smile. Stiles looked at him, “I'm not scared, you know.”  
“Ha!” laughed Derek, with such unexpected force that it made Stiles jump a little out of his seat. It was a rare thing to see anything other than subdued emotion from Derek, and the sudden outburst took him by surprise. “No, Stiles, I know you're not scared. I know because when we first met, you not only talked to me, you spoke your mind, even though you knew some of the things you'd say I wouldn't like. You said them anyway… to a werewolf...a werewolf who can sometimes be a bit moody,” said Derek.  
“A grumpy wolf,” Stiles added.  
“A grumpy wolf,” Derek confirmed.  
“Are you ever scared?” Stiles asked.

A small smile crept across Derek's face, “I used to be. But now, I don't know how I could be. If you're by my side, I can't fear a thing in the world. Look at you,” he said, caressing Stiles' cheek, “My anchor, my fountain of hope. Nothing can hurt us when we're together.”

The two's eyes were locked in a quiet moment, broken by the sound of Chris Argent's voice, “I'm seeing some movement.”  
“Where?” asked Derek, going to the window.  
“Around the tree line at the far end of the field, by the river.”  
“I see something also,” said Priscilla, off the sides of the road to the main gate, “I will shoot them now,” she said matter-of-factly.  
“No, wait,” said Derek.  
“But they get close,” Priscilla said confused.  
“Watch,” said Derek. 

Priscilla's night vision scope showed several individuals advancing, and she wondered how many more there were outside of her limited range of view. Then, as the figures approached Isaac's oak tree, a burst of light illuminated the night with such intensity that everyone covered their eyes. It was as if someone had let off a camera flash in a dark room. The searing brightness was accompanied by a crack that broke the air like a flailed whip. Priscilla blinked several times, trying to adjust back to the darkness, so too was everyone else.

“What was this?” asked Priscilla.  
Derek looked over at Stiles, “Aren't you supposed to be the resident wizard now?”  
Stiles stumbled over his words, at first, trying to find the explanation for what had happened. “Well that was was one of the trees planted at the four directions of the ranch. That was the oak tree, the protector. I guess it protected us then?”

Derek smirked, “You haven't spent enough time with Deaton. I can tell that already.”  
“Did he plant it?” asked Stiles.  
“No,” said Derek, “That tree is a thousand years old, Stiles. When we built our ranch, we put the gate next to it, not it next to the gate. Maybe someday Deaton will tell you about the oak tree and the old gods of thunder and lightning, and whatever other stories he believes in.”  
“You don't believe in them, do you?” Stiles asked.  
“No,” Derek replied flatly.  
“But...” Stiles pointed his hand out the window at the tree, “That doesn't convince you?”  
“There are many things I can't explain in the world, Stiles: love, magic...” Derek paused, searching for another example, “Marmite,” he continued, “But big men floating around in the sky… No, I don't think so.”

“Stiles, god has flamed your oak tree. Not very nice,” said Priscilla. The oak tree's crown was burning, illuminating the front entrance to the ranch like a torch.  
“It's fine,” said Derek, “It's happened before, a long time ago. That's why it has a lightning scar,” Derek said.  
“It does not look like it has impressed anyone,” said Priscilla from the window, watching wolves moving closer, if but anything, a little slower.  
“I can start now?” she asked.  
“You can start now,” Derek affirmed. 

The room filled with gunshots from both windows not a second after he said it, and Stiles watched brass casings fall to the floor, clinking like metal hail. But the sound of casings falling to the ground gave way moments later to glass breaking downstairs. And it was not a single window, either. It sounded as if every pane of glass in the house were shattering violently.

Down below, wolves threw themselves into the windows, some breaking through, others not quite managing, but quickly following their more successful counterparts through the now-breached entrances. Wolves, who'd waited, fearlessly watching them from inside the house, now met them in a deadly battle, never believing glass would keep them apart, but hoping that the legions of cuts from the shards would weaken their adversaries for a moment.

It was every definition of a close-quarter fight. Stiles, Maria, Danny, his mother, and Deaton had now all been moved into the library. Scott and Isaac, meanwhile, were with Derek downstairs. The kitchen became a battleground in red, as they and several others fought the invading wolves. Behind them, towards the front of the house, more wolves had managed a breach, and Derek, keenly aware of what was going on behind him, hoped that his allies in the front rooms were able to hold them off.

The first wolf to break through ran straight towards Derek, and, though they were shifted, a look of shock could be perceived from both Isaac and Scott, when Derek with no hesitation whatsoever, leaped straight at the other wolf and devoured his neck. The wolf went down, but Derek persisted gnashing at the wolf's throat with the ferocity of a rabid animal. He looked up at the wolves who'd barely made it through the broken windows, his entire jaw stained red and dripping, his teeth bared, and his eyes glowing death.

The sight made the intruders stop momentarily, and just as they were preparing to move forward, however reluctantly, Scott, Isaac, and Derek, all three at once, rushed them, tearing at them, all strategy abandoned to pure rage. Walls went crimson wet. The wolves still outside on the deck watched the three finish off their adversaries, then take turns mauling one another's slain foes.

All three looked at the wolves waiting on the deck with a bloodlust so vicious that their would-be adversaries faltered, trembling at the thought of what would happen if they crossed the threshold. Derek growled deeply, preparing to launch himself at them, and upstairs in the library, Deaton, leaning, hands against a bookcase, mumbled something with his eyes closed. Scott and Isaac and the others crouched, ready, when a streak of lightning tore across the sky, and a thunderclap exploded behind the invading wolves, who, completely caught off guard, turned tail and tried to run. But Derek and his friends would not let them go in peace. They sprinted out the kitchen in pursuit, latching onto any wolf not quick enough to escape.

Down below in the basement, things did not fare so well. The defending wolves were barely holding the intruders at bay. They'd had an easier time breaking through the wide glass sliding doors, offering them much less restricted access to the house. Blood dripped from the upper deck, falling like red raindrops through the slats of wood onto the patio below. Wolves took swipes at one another, wrestling, clawing, and dying. It was not going well. But as things became desperate, more wolves burst out of the barn to the right of the house, bounding towards it to take the invaders from behind. It was too much for Michael's wolves. They had barely time to turn their heads at the sound of pounding feet, snarls, and roars, before they were set upon from in front and behind, and torn to pieces in a matter of moments.

The few remaining wolves began to retreat just as Derek, Isaac, and Scott, made their way down the deck's steps and into the grass which was no longer green. They arrived in time to see the backs of the wolves running away, until, from further on, they saw Michael and his inner circle approach, and all stopped in their tracks. Their attempted flight came to an end, as their leader marched, determined, into the hitherto lost foray. He was flanked by another dozen wolves, all fresh and unwearied. _This should be fun_ , thought Derek, panting as he tried to recover from the battle.

Michael stepped forward, with no fear visible in his demeanor. He walked, in fact, as if he owned the place. "Peter's dead, Derek. You can give up now. We're all friends here."  
Derek was ready to tear him apart, and surely would have, had it not been for Isaac who laid a hand on his shoulder. “Let me,” he said, in a voice so calming, Derek stopped himself almost at once.

Isaac approached Michael, and they spent a full minute looking each other up and down.  
“It's time to go home, Michael,” said Isaac, “You can't win here.”  
“I can win. You're the fool if you don't see that,” Michael growled. His pacing made Scott worry what might happen, and he began to approach slowly, before he reached Isaac's side.  
“You don't have to do this. We don't want to bother anybody, Michael,” Scott said. Michael beckoned Mark over to his side. Scott kept speaking, trying to ignore Mark's presence.  
“You came, and now you can leave. Whatever you thought you were doing here… you lost. You're done.”

Scott turned his back, ushering Isaac to follow him, dismissing even the remotest idea that Michael would actually stay, but Michael lunged at him in a rage, perhaps trying to lead the way for his own forces for another attack. He began tearing into Scott's back, and at the sight of it, Mark, released from any inhibition by his feelings for Scott, rushed forward to try and save them both from killing one another. Then, two shots rang out from Argent and Priscilla who were still at the window. Two wolves were on the ground with silver bullets in them. Scott looked down at Mark's curled up body. His eyelids were still twitching. Michael, it seemed, was dead. He lay there, as if frozen in motion.

Scott knelt next to Mark. “Mark?” he whispered. Marks eyes opened a little, just enough for him to look at Scott. Scott smiled feebly. “Thank you for trying to protect me,” he said, trying his best not to get the words out.

Mark looked at him as blood dribbled out his mouth. Choking, he whispered to Scott, “You can tell the best person on earth that they don't deserve you and you'll be right, Scott. I'll always...” and then Mark's eyes closed, languid and peaceful, and there was no more to be said. Scott looked up at the window where Argent and Priscilla still stood with their guns pointed down. He wanted to cry. He wanted to tell them they'd killed him by mistake, but he was gone already. It didn't matter anymore. He stood up, feeling a sense of abandon, and the wolves who'd accompanied Michael began to back away as the host of defending wolves started to inch towards them, and two rifle barrels swung slowly in their direction.

The werewolf who'd been immediately behind Michael decided to shift back to his human form. “We'll go,” he said, his arms splayed out, palms open to the host of wolves who were ready to attack. One-by-one, the others around him shifted too, and Derek and Thomas, and all the wolves around them started to transform as well, as the last of the invading wolves turned and walked away.

Isaac walked over to Scott, who was still kneeling over Mark, holding his hand. He put his hand on Scott's shoulder. Scott was teary-eyed as he looked at Isaac's sympathetic face, “He's gone because of me.” Isaac's hand squeezed Scott's shoulder, “No, Scott. He's gone for a lot of reasons, but you aren't one of them. You can't take the blame for this, and if you ever try to, know I'll be there to make sure you can't. Come on,” he said, as he grabbed Scott under the armpits and hoisted him up with a grunt, “Let's go inside.”

Derek stayed as Isaac and Scott left to go into the house. He and Thomas walked over to one another. “So, it looks like we won,” Derek said. Thomas had his hands stuffed into the pockets of his bloodstained khakis, “Yeah it looks like it. Too bad it took all of this.”  
“Yeah,” said Derek, avoiding eye contact.  
“I'm sorry about Peter,” Thomas said, “I think he meant well, truly.”  
“Maybe,” Derek said, “It doesn't matter anymore.”  
“I guess not,” said Thomas.  
“So what now?” Derek asked, finally looking up.  
“I guess I'll be going back to San Francisco. Looks like I'm the new leader of the Folkmoot.” He faltered for a second, “Are you sure you won't come back? I could use a friend I can trust.”  
Derek shook his head, “No, I need to be here.”

Thomas slapped him on the arm, though he grimaced in doing so, “I understand,” he said. He started to turn away, before redoubling quite quickly with a proposal, “Would you accept if I asked you to be the protector of this area?” The question seemed to have come out of the blue, but Thomas explained, “I have to consolidate everything, and I need you, if only here to keep things under control. If only I had someone in the western territories to keep things in line. It would make a huge difference.”  
Derek sighed, “Alright, Thomas.”  
Thomas smiled, “Thank you. I'll gather my things and leave. You've been a generous host and very good friend.” Thomas left without anything more being said.

A moment later, however, a scream came from the kitchen, and Derek, Scott, and Isaac rushed up the steps to see what was the matter, “Oh my god!” Maria yelled, “Do you know how long this is going to take me to clean?!?”  
The three stared, mortified, seeing what Maria faced. There was blood everywhere, broken dishes, shattered chairs, not to mention the bodies. But they suddenly snapped to as three sets of marigold gloves hit their faces. They looked at one another, annoyed, before putting them on.  
__

A couple of days later everything seemed normal, or near as normal as it could. The kitchen was spotless, the lawn had been cleared, the windows boarded 'til glass could be brought in. The last of the wolves had gone, some having stayed to help, blessedly, in the massive cleanup which rivaled the aftermath of a hundred toddlers' birthday parties held in tandem.

The large boards covering the windows made the whole house feel somber, stuffy, and dark. Everyone had been sitting outside as much as possible, Maria had taken to grilling on the barbecue. The wind brought cold breezes, strong enough to bite a bit at the skin, but they had jackets, and their chimenea to huddle around. They didn't mind terribly. The fresh air was like mint in their nostrils, cold and healing as it made its way into their lungs and back out again.

No one really spoke much. No one really felt the need. They all still inhabited that peculiar time after an event of the macabre sort, where everyone tries their best to carry on. The sort of time when haphazard comments pepper mountainous silence and are trite and steeped in irony. It was that time of odd jibes and ill-humored repartee, searching comfort, trying to dispel the past wherein everyone still dwells, arrested and self-interned. Despite the jokes and their dark dirge to the not-yet-forgotten, none really failed to forget anything at all.

“What now?” asked Scott when they were all seated by the fire after dinner.  
“We wait for new windows,” said Maria, who was eating her after-meal corn on the cob.  
Scott gave a small smirk in recognition, before Derek said something.  
“What do you want to do?”  
Scott stuttered, “I mean, I don't know, really.”  
“Stiles and I are staying here. Obviously, so is Maria.”  
“You're goddamned right,” she said, tossing the corncob into the chimenea, “This place would be a dump inside of a week if I weren't here.”  


“What about you, Deaton?” Scott asked.  
“I...” Deaton seemed to think for a minute, “I think for now I need to go back. I have my practice, although,” he chuckled, “I'm not sure what's left after such a long hiatus. Maybe I'll come back. God knows there are enough horses here.”  
Scott looked to Isaac, who was staring at the fire, seeming detached. “What do you want, Isaac?”  
“I want to stay here,” he said in a distant voice.  
“What's wrong?” Derek asked.  
“I want to stay here, but I don't want to stay here without Scott. He's got his mom and his dad back home, and I don't want to be the one who keeps him away from them.” He looked up, “Sorry, that's probably something I should have said in private.”  


“I'll stay, Isaac,” said Scott.  
“Please don't say that. I'll have to feel guilty knowing you won't be with them just because of me.”  
“Isaac, my mom and my dad have each other. Just like we do. If this is where you stay, this is where I'll stay too,” Scott said.  
“Someone's got to look after that oak anyway,” said Deaton kindly, to which Isaac smiled sadly.  
“I don't have to start calling him Treebeard or anything do I?” Stiles asked, chuckling awkwardly with no one else.  


He finally noticed no one shared the joke, and his eyes darted back and for, “What? You know… Treebeard, the Ent from… Oh never mind,” he said throwing his hands up at the blank expressions. He scowled resentfully as Derek reached over and wagged a finger in front of his lips, “Shhhh….. it's okay, Stiles. No one knows what you're talking about, but it's okay.”  
Isaac started laughing and Derek grinned as he rubbed Stiles head playfully.  


“Danny really went back with Thomas, huh?” Scott asked.  
Derek shook his head, “Yeah, well, that's his decision. I wasn't going to stop him.”  
Stiles jumped in, “But Thomas is...”  
“Not my favorite person,” Derek said, “But Danny has to do what he feels is right. Who am I to say?”  
“We'll be okay here,” said Scott, with a sudden confidence.  
“Of course we will,” Derek said, “We belong to these mountains.”

__

The next morning, Derek and Stiles stood on the balcony and watched the sun rise over the pines. Their coffee cups wafted steam into the cold air, as they stood side-by-side, each with an arm wrapped around the other. For the first time in a long time, they both felt at home.

THE END


End file.
